


Flowers for the Dead

by Xenobia



Series: Flowers of the Soul [3]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: AU, Crossdressing, M/M, Sexual Content, Violence, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:06:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 140,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenobia/pseuds/Xenobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Denounced as a fugitive after the Campania incident, Undertaker can't return to his humble trade as a funeral director. The Shinigami Dispatch sees him as a criminal, yet his services are still needed. The task of rehabilitation falls onto Grell, who can empathize with him more than most reapers of his generation.  Yaoi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

# "Flowers for the Dead"

Chapter 1

A Kuroshitsuji (Black Butler) Fanfiction

**_Author’s note:_ ** _This story takes place after the Campania event in the Manga, but it has AU elements to it._

**_Disclaimer: Kuroshitsuji (Black Butler) and all characters therein belong to Yana Toboso. I make no profit from the writing of this fanfiction, and it is strictly for entertainment purposes only_**.

 

* * *

Booted feet landed beside the wagon cart as the driver hopped down from it. The night sky was overcast, and lightning danced in the clouds rolling in from the sea. The driver tilted his head back and put one hand on the top-hat resting on top of it, to keep it from tumbling off. He smiled, revealing rows of perfectly straight, white teeth. It was the ideal weather for a visit and a chat. Thunder boomed and a cold wind blew in, whipping the man’s long, silver hair and black garments to the side.

He watched the lightning play in the clouds above the manor on the hill, and he reckoned by the light visible through the windows that the Phantomhive house was still up and about. He couldn’t recall what mortals considered a respectable hour to be in bed. His own sleeping patterns were varied and unpredictable—much like himself. He slept when he felt like it, outside business hours. It didn’t matter if it was the middle of the day or after the witching hour, but most of his business was conducted at night, so he slept more often during the day.

"Wouldn’t do to come calling too late," he mused, still grinning. The wind picked up even more, and the horse whinnied restlessly. He turned around to look at the animal, and he patted it on the flank. "You’re all right, old girl. I’ll see to it that you get a warm barn and some oats, tonight. The Phantomhive family has always been known for hospitality."

Of course, he wasn’t sure how far that hospitality would extend to _him_ , after the last time he’d met Earl Phantomhive and his butler. They still might be a tad cross with him, as was the Shinigami Dispatch. He hadn’t been back to his shop in London since escaping the sinking cruise ship. He knew it was being watched, and they were bound to send more than two officers after him, this time.

His stomach rumbled, and he looked down at it with a frown. “Quiet, you. I say when we eat.”

The problem was that he and his stomach hadn’t eaten a thing since he ran out of biscuits yesterday. He tightened the cloth belt around his narrow waist—a poor substitute for the chain locket belt he usually wore. No matter, he had come to reclaim his treasure, and he didn’t intend to leave until he had it.

"I hope you’ve taken good care of it for me, young Earl."

 

* * *

Sebastian was just on his way to the kitchen with a dining cart, when he heard the knocking. He frowned and checked his pocket watch. “Who could be calling at this hour?”

Evidently, his master wondered the same thing. Ciel poked his head out of the study and peered down the hallway, toward the great hall. “Who could _that_ be?” demanded the boy.

"I could not say, my lord," answered Sebastian with a slight bow. Mey-Rin came out of one of the bathrooms with her cleaning equipment, and Sebastian snapped his fingers to get her attention. "Mey-Rin, be a dear and bring this to the kitchen for Bardroy to clean up, while I answer the door."

The maid hurried over to do as asked, blushing predictably when her hand brushed against Sebastian’s “Right away, Sebastian!”

"Whoever it is, turn them away," Ciel grumbled as Mey-Rin took the cart and rolled it away. "I don’t like un-announced visitors showing up after dinnertime."

"Of course, master," agreed Sebastian. "I shall prepare your evening tea after I’ve seen our visitor off."

"Good." Seemingly satisfied, Ciel disappeared back into the study.

Sebastian went into the great hall and to the expansive double doors. The knocking continued persistently, slow and rhythmic. There was an almost macabre quality to it, and Sebastian frowned. His devilish senses tingled, and he reached into his suit jacket to procure his personal selection of fine silverware. Tucking them subtly behind one gloved hand to conceal them, he approached the door and opened the peep window.

"Who calls?"

He found himself staring at black material crammed over the little window. Sebastian raised a brow. “Whoever you are, I am afraid my master is not entertaining guests at this hour. If you wish to arrange an appointment, you may contact the Earl or come back during daylight hours.”

"Oh, I doubt I need an appointment."

Recognizing the muffled voice on the other side of the doors, the butler tightened his grip on his silverware. “Undertaker? To what do we owe the pleasure?”

"You still have something of mine, as I recall," answered the reaper. "I’ve come to collect it."

Remembering the belt of locket keepsakes that Undertaker dropped while the Campania was sinking into the ocean, Sebastian smirked. “Ah, I was wondering when you might come seeking that out. It seemed to be very precious to you.”

"I take that to mean you’ve kept it safe," answered the Undertaker. "Well, can I come in?"

Now both of Sebastian’s brows migrated up. “Surely, you’re joking.”

There was a soft snicker. “I thought you might hold a slight grudge. I formally apologize for injuring you with my scythe, Mr. Michaelis. You must agree though, I had little choice. You were all coming at me from different directions. I had to defend myself.”

"Oh, I’m not bothered by the attempted reaping," assured Sebastian. "I am, however, slightly miffed at you for threatening my master and cutting the ship in half on us. I don’t even need to speak of the inconvenience you caused us with those undead creatures you made."

There was a sigh. “Yes, my bizarre dolls were a disappointing flop. The poor dears didn’t know which end was up. I don’t intend to make more of them, if that is your concern.”

"My concern is that you are a threat," answered Sebastian coldly. "You’ve always been somewhat lacking in rational thought, but your actions aboard the ship were—"

"Sebastian."

Sebastian turned to regard his young master. He had heard him approaching behind him, but his attention was focused on the dangerous being on the other side of the door. “My lord?”

Ciel’s uncovered blue eye gazed up at him calmly, the shadow of his blue-highlighted, dark hair covering his brow. “Let him in.”

The butler frowned at him. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

"I want an explanation." Ciel’s small form was rigid with determination, his lips pressed into a tight line. "He has served my family loyally for years. I want to hear his excuse for turning on me. The brief explanation he offered aboard the ship won’t do."

Sebastian sighed. “Very well, my lord.”

 

* * *

He had Finnian see to the old nag pulling Undertaker’s cart, and then he escorted Undertaker to the dining room. He served the hungry reaper a generous bowl of hot stew, accompanied by dinner rolls and a mug of hot cider. Ciel sipped his tea and nibbled on dessert cakes, waiting patiently while Undertaker stuffed his face. Sebastian caught sight of four curious faces peeking in from the archway separating the dining room from the kitchen, and he gave them a subtle, meaningful glance. Mey-Rin, Bardroy, Tanaka and Finny again vanished from sight, unwilling to risk his ire.

"Is the stew to your liking?" Sebastian inquired politely.

"Mm," agreed Undertaker. He swallowed a spoonful and wiped his lips. "Hits the spot, Mr. Michaelis. My compliments to the chef."

Seeing that he was nearly finished with the serving, Sebastian retrieved one of the trays of dessert cakes, a small plate and fresh silverware for him. He waited until he finished before taking his empty bowl away and replacing it with the dessert plate. “Now, if you please, I believe my young master would like an explanation.”

Undertaker drank deeply from his mug, before setting it aside and wiping his lips again. He’d removed his hat to dine, and he pushed his long bangs aside to peer at Ciel. His dual-colored Shinigami eyes probably couldn’t make out much of his host from this distance without proper glasses, but he smiled at him.

"Indeed. Well, young Earl, I knew you would survive. Otherwise, I would have taken you with me."

Ciel frowned. “Oh, really?” He sipped his tea. “Why?”

Undertaker looked up at Sebastian, his death’s grin unwavering. “Because you had _him_ by your side. He did stand to lose the ambrosia he’s been cooking up for so long, if he allowed you to die.” He tapped a long, black nail against the side of his mug, and he shrugged. “Though the possibility that he might decide to gobble you up before the ship went down _did_ cross my mind.”

Ciel sighed, clearly losing patience. “That doesn’t explain your actions.”

Watching the mysterious reaper, Sebastian spoke his thoughts on the matter. “He wanted to save you from me, my lord.”

Ciel raised a brow. “By letting me get eaten by zombies? By threatening me with his scythe? By nearly drowning me? Make sense.”

"Ah, but there is a method to my madness," chuckled Undertaker. He sipped his drink before speaking again. "I told you to take care of your soul, little Earl. Do you remember that?"

Ciel smirked without humor. “I thought you were being ironic, or simply mocking me.”

"Maybe I was," agreed Undertaker, "but your butler isn’t wrong. If you had died that night before he could get to you, then your soul would have been safe." His green-gold eyes stared evenly into Ciel’s across the way. "Human bodies are temporary, my lord. Souls are another matter."

The boy’s frown returned. “So you thought to spare mine by killing me? But then you changed your tactics. You said that Sebastian made me miserable, and he should vanish.”

The reaper’s gaze flicked to Sebastian, who had gone to Ciel’s side to stand protectively near him. “Seemed like the sensible thing to do at the time.”

"I wish you would make up your mind," snapped Ciel.

Undertaker snickered. “So do I, boy. So do I. Now, if you please, there’s still the matter of my treasure.”

Ciel reached into his dinner jacket and withdrew the long chain, dangling it before him. The attached lockets were polished up, without a hint of tarnish. “I have it here.”

He looked at it for a moment, his gaze fixating on one locket in particular, before looking up at Sebastian. The brand on the butler’s hand itched and burned beneath his gloves, and Ciel spoke to him through the link they shared.

_~”Contact the Shinigami Dispatch, Sebastian.”~_

 

* * *

Undertaker started to get up to retrieve the locket collection from the boy, but Ciel replaced it in his pocket and held up a warning hand. “Just a moment,” insisted the Earl. “I still have things I would like to discuss with you, and you haven’t had your dessert.”

The reaper considered the Earl quietly, and his blurry gaze went to the archway that Sebastian had disappeared through. He could probably snatch Ciel and be far away from the manor with him before his guardian could stop him, but he hadn’t come to threaten anyone. He made himself relax, supposing that Ciel must be feeling confident, to sit in there alone with him. As gifted as his mortal servants were, none of them were a match for a reaper—let along one as ancient as he was. 

Undertaker sat back down and looked into his mug. “Might I get another drop to drink, little lord? I’ve finished this one.”

Ciel nodded. “Of course.” He rang one of the three little bells near his plate, producing a charming, feminine tinkle. The auburn haired maid hurried into the dining hall a moment later, nearly tripping over her own feet.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Our guest requires more to drink, Mey-Rin. Bring him a cup of the tea Sebastian prepared, and refresh my tea as well." Ciel looked at Undertaker inquisitively. "Unless you would prefer more cider?"

Undertaker shook his head and speared one of the little cakes with his dessert fork. “Tea will be just fine, Earl.”

Mey-Rin curtsied and left the room to fetch the requested beverage. Undertaker watched her go, and then he returned his attention to Ciel. “Where did your butler go, young master?”

Ciel’s blue gaze was steady on him, possessed of maturity far beyond his meager years. “He has work to do. This is a large manor, and the lion’s share of maintenance falls upon Sebastian, since I’m short staffed. He’ll be around.”

"I see." Undertaker smiled at the boy. "And you aren’t worried that I might threaten you again?"

Ciel sipped his cooling tea, displaying neither fear nor concern. “I think you would have done it already, if you intended to harm me. You came here for your ‘treasure’, and I allowed you in because I wanted answers. It’s quite simple, really.”

Undertaker watched him quietly then, until the boy revealed his youth with an uncomfortable fidget. “What?” he demanded at last, snapping.

"You are your father’s son," answered the reaper obligingly. "Just as fearless and determined as you, Vincent was. Even when he discovered my secret, he showed no fear."

"Your secret?" Ciel’s annoyance faded, and his curiosity was evident.

"That I’m a reaper," elaborated the Undertaker. "He caught me examining my treasure one evening, you see."

Undertaker left it at that for the moment, because the shy little maid with the enormous round glasses came back into the dining room, wheeling a tea tray. First she poured more into her lord’s cup and sweetened it with a sugar cube, and then she pushed the tray to the other side of the table to service Undertaker.

"Thank you, my dear," said the reaper pleasantly, smiling at her. The poor thing was shaking as she poured his drink, and she was blushing a marvelous shade of pink.

"Y-you’re welcome, sir," squeaked the girl. She spilled a little and she gasped, immediately apologizing. Undertaker reached out to take her wrist and stop her when she began to pour into a completely different cup.

"No need for that, little one. I work with much worse spills than a spot of tea, after all."

Mey-Rin looked at him through her thick round lenses with wide brown eyes, and the color in her cheeks darkened further. “I…would you…like cream or sugar?”

"Sugar, please," he replied. "Plenty of it."

Mey-Rin smiled shyly. “I have a sweet-tooth myself, sir.”

"I’m sure you have a sweet _everything_ , love.”

He saw the look Ciel was giving him and he released the maid’s wrist with a soft snicker, winking at her from beneath the curtain of his bangs. Mey-Rin hastily set the tea, spoon and condiments down, before excusing herself with one hand clamped over her nose.

"Begging your pardon, my lords," she apologized in a muffled voice, and then she was gone in a flash. Undertaker had never seen a mortal girl move that quickly, before.

"Something I said?" he pondered, grinning.

"That is the very last time I want to see you flirting with my staff," Ciel informed him, his young face still twisted into a comical grimace, like he’d just walked in on his parents making love. "Or with anyone, in my presence."

"You don’t like to see you’re old uncle Undertaker chatting up the lasses?" Undertaker fought the urge to cackle. The boy really could be endearing, at times.

"You are _not_ my uncle,” Ciel insisted stiffly. “I just…don’t like to see you flirting. It’s disturbing.”

"Because I’m your honorary uncle," persisted Undertaker, tickled.

"What sort of uncle tries to kill his own nephew?" demanded Ciel.

"The Shinigami kind, apparently." Undertaker sobered up, sighing. "In my own way, I wanted to save you. I can’t explain it to you in words you’d understand, little lord. The minds of my kind don’t work the same was as human minds, and mine in particular is more fractured than others."

"The truly insane generally don’t _know_ they are disturbed,” Ciel said guardedly, his good eye hooded. “I believe you when you say your mind is fractured, though. I just don’t know that _you_ believe it.”

"Oh, I do," chuckled Undertaker. He tapped his left temple. "Thunder and lightning in here, boy. Most people wouldn’t last a day, in my head."

"I have no doubt of that," assured Ciel. His expression softened, and he looked into his tea as if it held answers. "Do you really think I’m like my father?"

Undertaker nodded without hesitation. “Undoubtedly, young Earl. You’re practically the spitting image of him too, when he was your age. You have your mother’s eyes, though.”

Ciel’s expression softened further, revealing vulnerability that he usually hid so well. He quickly schooled his face into the aloof, bored mask he tended to wear, and Undertaker again thought it was a shame for such a young soul to bear so much weight.

"You said my father caught you looking at your treasure." Ciel retrieved the chain of lockets from his jacket again, holding them up for inspection. "And _that_ was what gave you away to him? They are only memorial charms.”

Undertaker grinned at him. “If you had opened any one of those up, you would know how wrong you are about that.”

"And how do you know I didn’t?" challenged Ciel with a little smirk.

Undertaker reached out for his top hat, sitting within reach on the table. He tilted it towards Ciel with a smile. “I tip my hat to you for your skill with psychological warfare, but it isn’t possible for anyone except me to open those lockets.”

Ciel frowned at said lockets dubiously. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

"Then give it a try," suggested the Undertaker with a welcoming gesture. He sat back and clasped his hands over the table, threading his long fingers together. "Go ahead, then. Open one."

Ciel gave him a wary look. “Don’t think that I won’t.”

The reaper chuckled. “You can surely try, little lord. Feel free.”

Ciel’s eye flicked back to the lockets, fixating on one in particular. “Claudia. Was this—”

"Your grandmother," confirmed Undertaker with a nod before he could finish the question. "Lovely woman. Hard as granite, that one. She had a good sense of humor, though."

Ciel hesitated, biting his lip. “I don’t remember her.”

"She passed shortly after you were born, my lord." Undertaker softened his voice, remembering the woman. "Consumption."

The boy regarded the locket with more interest. “So you kept a lock of her hair? Or a picture?”

"Something much more special," advised the reaper. He got up from his seat, and he glided over to the small Earl. "I could show you, if you like."

Ciel looked up at him, and Undertaker could see the inner war happening behind his gaze. Ciel was still a child, however—no matter how hard he attempted to act like an adult. He was still prone to a boy’s curiosity and a desire to see wondrous things. He held the chain up to the reaper, holding his gaze.

"Show me."

His response gave it away. He had indeed attempted to pry the lockets open, so he at least believed Undertaker when he said that only he could open them. The reaper took the chain reverently, letting the links and lockets slide through his fingers as he smiled at them like old friends.

"Hello again," he greeted them. He glanced at Ciel. "Thank you, by the way, for having them polished. They were due for it."

Ciel subtly inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Please go on.”

Undertaker chuckled, catching up Claudia’s locket between a thumb and forefinger and rubbing the surface of it between them. “Can’t resist, can you? Very well.”

He knelt beside Ciel’s chair, brought the locket to his lips and he pressed a kiss on the metal surface of it. The locket popped open and he held it out as a snippet of a cinematic record played. It started with the day of Ciel’s birth, and it showed little old Claudia Phantomhive extolling the efforts of her son and daughter in law to the servants of the house, as proud as she could be to welcome her new grandson into the world. Another short clip of her smacking Vincent Phantomhive over the back of the head soon followed, and Ciel blinked as the petite, aged woman admonished her son for poorly diapering his newborn.

"She…she was…" Ciel hesitated, clearly struggling for an adjective.

"Something special," obliged Undertaker with a snicker. "So far ahead of her time, in mannerisms and attitude. Your granny took shit from nobody, Ciel; not even me…not even on the day I came for her."

Ciel stared at him. “You?”

"Of course." Undertaker glanced at him. "I’m officially retired, but I had a contract with your family. I turned in all the records to the Shinigami library, of course, but I always kept little snippets of my favorite parts, just for myself."

Claudia’s death scene came next, and Ciel’s brows shot up when Undertaker came into the picture and knelt beside her bedside, removing his hat. It wasn’t the presence of the family informant that made his brows go up; it was his grandmother’s greeting to him.

_"There you are, you ghastly old bastard,"_ Claudia said to the Shinigami at her deathbed. _"On with it, then."_

Undertaker laughed softly in delight, while Ciel stared with wide eyes. The snippet ended as Undertaker got to his feet in the record. He closed the locket and smiled at his young host. “I never tire of watching that. Your grandmother Phantomhive had more bollocks than most men in her life, and I suspect both you and your father inherited that from her.”

Ciel—for once—looked utterly enchanted. “There are bits of all of my relative’s cinematic records in that belt?”

"Well, no," admitted Undertaker. He closed his outer robes and fastened the belt around his waist. "A couple are from the last souls I reaped before retiring, and I was unable to collect your parents’ records, unfortunately."

Ciel lowered his gaze. “I thought not. I didn’t see either of their names engraved on any of those lockets.”

Compelled by a promise to a mortal woman that he nearly considered a friend, Undertaker reached out and patted Ciel’s shoulder. “If I could have captured some precious moments of them for you, I would have.”

Ciel frowned at him. “I don’t understand you.”

The retired Shinigami smiled wildly at him. “Ah, but maybe you aren’t meant to, little lord.” He gave him another pat, and he stood up again, and he sighed. “The truth is that I couldn’t bring myself to reap you before you were scheduled to die. You were never going to perish on that liner. You have some time, before that happens.”

"You know when I’m going to die?"

Undertaker looked down at him, musing. “Approximately. The closer you are to your death day, the clearer the vision is to me. I would have interfered with your natural end, if I had acted on my threat. I didn’t much care for that, so I opted to get rid of the threat to your soul.”

Ciel nodded in understanding. “But my soul isn’t yours to ‘protect’, regardless of the conflicts between your kind and demons. Human souls don’t belong to reapers or demons, unless we give them over to the latter.”

Undertaker inclined his head. “True enough. Maybe it’s engrained in my kind to try and stop demons from consuming the souls we’re meant to collect for the library. It’s not really my place to question it anymore, one way or the other.”

Ciel suddenly swore, surprising him. Undertaker looked at him with a frown, and he found the boy watching him with a torn expression.

"You have to go," Ciel informed him.

At first, Undertaker assumed he’d offended him. The urgency in Ciel’s tone gave him pause, though. “Begging your pardon, Earl?”

Ciel put his tea aside and pushed his chair away from the table. He got out of the seat, and he walked over to Undertaker’s hat and collected it. He held it out to him and looked up at him with a troubled blue eye.

"You can’t remain here. You _must_ leave, as soon as possible.”

Undertaker took his hat from Ciel, and he thought he understood. “You had your butler contact my former work associates.”

"Yes," admitted the boy. "Can you really blame me?"

"Not at all." Undertaker put his hat on his head. "In fact, I was starting to wonder if you were a bit too trusting. Glad to see I was wrong to worry."

Ciel shut his eye and shook his head. “Just go. I want nothing more to do with reaper conflicts.”

Undertaker might have told him that he could have avoided involvement by _not_ calling the hounds on him, but as he’d said; he couldn’t rightly blame him. He gave Ciel a little bow, and he prudently decided that it was time to take his leave with his treasure.

"Thank you for your hospitality, little Earl," said the Undertaker cordially, his long sleeves flapping with motions. "At least you put some food in my belly, before you turned me in."

Ciel looked slightly stricken, and the reaper felt a touch of pity for him. He patted him on the head awkwardly, and he shrugged. “I _did_ threaten your life and attempt to kill your butler, my lad. I believe we’re even.”

Deciding to leave it at that, Undertaker started to turn around. He sensed a change in the air at that moment, though. He sensed the darkness gathering before it coagulated, and he hastily stepped between the preteen boy and the threat.

"You may want to step out of your dining room now, Ciel Phantomhive."

Undertaker called his Scythe, just as three portals opened near the exit to the great hall. Each portal opened to admit a familiar Shinigami, each dressed in his organization finery. William T. Spears emerged from the middle portal, looking immaculate, cool and aloof in his tailored tuxedo. He kept his dark brown hair neatly trimmed and parted to the left. Ronald Knox stepped out of the portal to the left of him, dressed in a nearly identical outfit, but lacking his refined countenance. Youngest of the three, his hair feathered over his brow in blond tones that darkened to black near the collar. From the right portal came Grell Sutcliff, with his long, crimson hair spilling down over his shoulders and back. His uniform was slightly different from his companions, with a red and white striped bowtie, a black sleeveless vest and a white undershirt.

Grell was the most interesting one of the three of them, to Undertaker. He’d filed all of his teeth to points, which resulted in a shark-toothed smile. He seemed to consider himself both a man and a woman, and he certainly exhibited qualities from both the masculine and the feminine. He blew a kiss at Undertaker when he stepped out of his portal, and then he lifted his chainsaw in a rather lewd, suggestive way.

"Undertaker," announced Spears, "You are charged with violating Rule 2-B of Code 5, sub-section 3, regarding the interference of mortal life and death. You are hereby ordered by Shinigami society authorities to relinquish your scythe and surrender."

More portals manifested, all around the dining room. Three of them, he might have handled. Six was stretching it a bit, and Sebastian returned to the dining room to pull Ciel away from him. Eric Slingby, Alan Humphries and another Shinigami that Undertaker did not recognize appeared from the new portals.

"Wait," called Ciel, but Sebastian picked him up bodily and carried him out of the room, ignoring his protests.

"If you resist," announced William, leveling his scythe at him, "we have been authorized to use deadly force."

Undertaker stared at the pruning pole scythe, knowing that it could extend to shocking distances in the blink of a mortal eye. It’s owner looked a bit pale, however. In fact, there was emotion behind those determined eyes, and he saw the silent plea in them. He knew that Spears admired him for his past history with the organization, and he knew how hard it must be for him to put duty before personal feelings.

Even under these odds, Undertaker couldn’t resist toying with his adversaries. He lifted his scythe, displaying the formidable, classic weapon in a warning manner. The other reapers backed up a bit, grasping their own scythes warily.

"When they tell you to jump," announced Undertaker with a wild, broad grin, "you lot ask how high. I used to be just like you."

"Undertaker!"

Distracted by the sound of Ciel calling his name again, Undertaker turned to see Ciel standing in the archway to the kitchen, with his butler at his side. The boy parted his lips to say something else, but he faltered, unable to speak the apology in his muted gaze. Ciel Phantomhive wasn’t the sort to suffer guilt, doubt or sentiment easily, so it touched the ancient reaper to witness that little reveal.

Undertaker’s smile softened for him, and he kept his scythe defensively raised with one hand, while reaching down with the other to unfasten his chain belt again. “It seems you’ll be taking care of this for a bit longer, little lord.” Undertaker tossed it through the air, over the heads of Eric and Alan. Sebastian caught it, his ruby gaze curious on Undertaker.

"Now," said the retired Shinigami, "Get him out of here, butler."

 

* * *

_~No.~_

But saying it in his head did not stop it from happening. Despite being utterly surrounded, the Undertaker swung his scythe in a deadly arc, the blade making a hair-raising _whoosh_ sound as it cut through the air toward him and his two companions.

William reacted immediately, shoving Ronald to the floor before ducking himself. He heard Grell shout in a way that sounded as gleeful as alarmed, and then the walls behind him were sliced horizontally, all the way through. Had he been still standing, his head would have probably been severed from his shoulders, and the top of Ronald’s skull would have been lopped off. Grell was short enough even in heels to have survived with only a buzz-cut to show for it, but that would have been upsetting enough, for the likes of him.

"Holy shit!" Ronald blurted, seemingly surprised even though he’d already faced down Undertaker aboard the Campania.

William heard something overhead snap as Undertaker hopped onto the dining table and spun in a circle, letting the crescent blade of his scythe sing through the air. He heard Alan shout a warning to Eric, and then the chandelier overhead crashed down. The crystals shattered upon impact, and Thomas yelled as the spray of shards cracked his glasses and peppered his face. Eric grabbed him and yanked him to the floor, while Alan and Grell attacked from two different sides, leaping onto the table with their scythes leading the way.

Alan was quickly pinned to the wall by a hurled grave marker that pierced his shoulder, and Grell got tripped. Undertaker started to lower his scythe to the redhead once he was on his back at his feet, but he stopped at the last minute, reversed the strike and hit Eric in the stomach with the blunt side of his weapon, instead. Slingby crashed into the cabinet in the far corner of the room, shattering precious china and getting flattened by the cabinet itself, as it fell over him.

William got to his feet, ignoring the groaning sound above him. He extended his scythe and he pressed his lips together grimly as the blades at the end of it pierced Undertaker’s chest, just beside his right shoulder. The fugitive staggered and peered at him through wild locks of silver hair, his eyes flashing.

"Don’t force the issue further," urged William, getting to his feet. Ronald circled around the table and nodded at him, ready to strike but awaiting his order.

"Ah, but I can’t help myself," Undertaker said with a grin. "You see, I—"

Unfortunately for him, Grell’s fallen chainsaw was spinning around in circles on the floor, still running. The blade just happened to hit the far right leg of the table that Undertaker was standing on, and it cut right through it. The leg snapped, the table abruptly buckled, and Undertaker went down with it—falling right on top of Grell.

The redhead cried out again, sounding inappropriately delighted as the legendary reaper’s body crashed down on top of his, in a blur of silver hair and black garments. The table fell over completely and both of them were fortunate that William put a firm foot down on the blade of the chainsaw to stop it from cutting into them, as well.

"Quickly," urged William to his associates.

Ronald was the first to reach Undertaker, and he started to cuff him with the special restraints designed by the organization to hold Shinigami. He got kicked in the face for his troubles, and Grell shouted a protest as Undertaker rolled onto his hair in the process of kicking Ron away. William leaped over the ruin of the table and extended his scythe again, before the Undertaker could get back to his feet and reach for his weapon.

Undertaker stopped when the sharp blades of William’s scythe pressed against either side of his throat, directly over the scar encircling the pale flesh. He looked up at the dispatch supervisor as the blades drew a trickle of blood, and he stopped moving. He began to grin like a fiend, watching the brunet through his long bangs as he spread his hands to either side in surrender.

"Couldn’t make it too easy on you, could I?"

William fought against a sudden urge to cry. He shoved his personal feelings aside and he kept his gaze fixated on the dangerous funeral director. “Ronald, finish. By the authority of Shinigami Dispatch, I hereby place you under arrest, Undertaker. You will be relieved of your scythe and confined, where you will await trial for your crimes. Do you understand these charges?”

Undertaker allowed Ronald to secure his wrists behind him with the glowing white spirit cuffs, and he obligingly took his knee off of Grell’s hair when the redhead tried to rise and complained. He gave Spears a reckless grin, and he nodded—incidentally drawing more blood.

"I think you’ve made it clear. Your masters will be pleased."

 

* * *

He hadn’t expected to escape, and he really hadn’t been interested in killing anyone. All in all, he still considered himself to be a neutral force, neither for or against his old associates, demons or angels. After recovering from the struggle, his captors took him to Shinigami headquarters. Undertaker felt somewhat comforted in the knowledge that his belt of treasures would be looked after by Ciel, until he could reclaim it once more.

"Funny how things work out," muttered the funeral director, shuffling along with his armed escort.

"What do you mean?" Grell asked. "If you’re going to mumble, at least try to make some sense."

Undertaker smirked. “Don’t mind me.”

He saw people out the corners of his eyes; reapers young and old, coming and going to and from work and training. They were all a blur, since he didn’t rely on glasses like his fellow Shinigami. Many of them stopped and stared at the ragged company, and Undertaker heard his name murmured on the lips of some. The dimension in which the Shinigami lived was an entirely different world from the mortal realm they operated on, and it was far more advanced. It had been so many years since Undertaker had been there, beyond the rare visits to the library. The metropolis had changed so much, already.

But one thing was still the same, and its irony wasn’t lost on Undertaker as he passed through the front doors of the tallest building and into the massive lobby. He looked up at the massive statue of himself, standing in the middle of the fountain in the center of the lobby.

Undertaker began to laugh heartily, and the volume of his laughter steadily increased as his escorts took him past the monument of himself.

 

* * *

-To be continued   


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Ronald stepped into the observation room as directed, and he found his superior standing before the window, sipping coffee. Things had been quite hectic in Dispatch since they brought in Undertaker yesterday, and everyone was excited and on edge. Ron came up beside the supervisor to have a look. The observation window was phased, so that only those on their side could see it. On the other side of it was the padded isolation cell, and housed within it was the ancient Shinigami that had become so legendary among their kind.

"One of the very first," observed William softly, glancing sidelong at his companion. "Did you know that, Ronald? Undertaker has existed since our race first began. He is the proverbial ‘Adam’ of reapers."

Ron crinkled his nose at the sight of the giggling, drooling lunatic. “Then who was the ‘Eve’, and is she as unhinged as he is?”

"Have some respect," admonished William. "He has been medicated, and is generally much more lucid than this. It was necessary in order to secure him for the beginning stage of his rehabilitation."

Ronald stared at the brunet. Had it been said by anyone else, he would have assumed it was a joke. William T. Spears did not joke around, though—especially about matters such as this. He got his orders directly from the Personnel department, and they got _their_ orders from the powers of creation—frequently referred to as one god or several, by mortals. Ron knew better than to argue with their decision, though he thought the odds of succeeding in the task were a bit slim.

"Do you really think this guy can be rehabilitated?" He peered through the glass at the lean, curled up figure in the corner of the room, by the bunk. "He really liked being a funeral director, from what I heard. If he wanted to be a soul harvester, he wouldn’t have tossed his glasses."

William adjusted his own glasses with his scythe, and he took another sip of his beverage. “Yes, and because of his deeds and age, Undertaker was allowed to his own devices. He has violated one of the top rules of our association, however, and those rules apply even to him. He has meddled in the life and death of mortals; created undead abominations by altering cinematic records without sanction. This time, he may just have to face the consequences of his actions.”

Ronald looked at the subject of their discussion again, taking in the scars marring the perfect, pale skin. Only a death scythe could leave a lasting scar on a reaper. “Looks to me like he’s _already_ faced the consequences of his actions. Well, his desertion, anyhow. What I don’t get is why they never took his scythe off of him when he resigned.”

William’s expression remained impassive. “They couldn’t.”

Ronald looked up at him again, frowning. “Why not? We managed to.”

"Because he allowed it," insisted the brunet. "How do you think he _earned_ those scars on his body? The man is so attuned to his scythe that it’s practically a part of him, and none of us here today could hope to match his skill with it.”

Ronald looked at the pruning pole resting so casually against William’s shoulder. He used the weapon as if it were an extension of himself. All reapers loved their scythes, but most of them treated them as the tools they were. Not William, though. He was so at ease with his scythe that it might have been grafted to his body.

"I’ll bet _you_ could match it,” he said guilelessly. “In fact, if you had been on board the Campania with us, he might not have gotten away. Uh, not that I’m saying it’s your fault…I’m just saying you handle your scythe better than any reaper I know, so you could be a match for Undertaker. You’ve also got reach the rest of us don’t have.”

The corner of William’s mouth turned up ever so slightly, forming an expression that wasn’t _quite_ a smirk. “Your faith in my abilities is appreciated, but I’m sensible enough to know my own limitations. I could give myself laurels and bask in your compliments, but in the end I think a one-on-one fight between myself and Undertaker would result in my defeat. He is, quite frankly, the most dangerous Shinigami alive.”

Ron sighed, and he stuck his hands into his pockets. “And here we are, trying to get him back into the program. I can’t be the only one that thinks this is a bad idea.”

William spared him another glance. “Reintegrating him back into the program would be to the benefit of us all, Mr. Knox. In addition to being a reaper of excellent quality, the man is a warrior. I should not need to tell you this, however; you’ve seen him fight for yourself.”

"T’cha, I’ve seen him fight." Ron touched his face in memory of the bruises he’d procured during that fracas. Sebastian Michaelis did his share, but Undertaker hit so much _harder_ than the demon. “He kicked our asses. That’s my point, though. I don’t think this guy is just going to come back willingly, and then what? Will they have him executed?”

"I sincerely doubt it." William frowned, though, his troubled thoughts now evident in his gaze. "That would make him a martyr. It is more likely that he will be permanently incarcerated here, or eventually sent on his way under constant observation. His death scythe won’t be returned to him, if he chooses not to cooperate."

"So how are we going to try and convince him?" pressed Ronald, looking into the room again. A couple of medical staff members had come in to administer a shot of medicine to Undertaker’s neck with an injection gun. "And what’s that they gave him, just a minute ago? Wasn’t he doped up enough?"

"That was a detoxifying injection," explained William. "It will rapidly clear the effects of the sedatives they gave him earlier, so that he can think clearly."

"Pfft, I don’t think that guy can ever ‘think clearly’." Ronald snapped his mouth shut when William gave him a disapproving glare, and he cleared his throat. "So you’re sending in someone to try and reason with him, is that it?"

William nodded. The medics carried Undertaker over to the table and chairs secured to the floor, and they helped him into one of the seats before leaving the room. “The stick has been tried before, and it has proven a failure. It’s time for us to try the carrot.”

"Uh-huh." Ronald scratched his head. "So, who’s going to deliver the ‘carrot’?"

He got his answer a moment later, when the cell door opened again and Grell Sutcliff strode into the room. He raised his brows. “Sutcliff Senpai? You’re letting him go in there alone with that guy?”

"Sutcliff can take care of himself," assured William in a faintly annoyed tone. "It’s about time for your precious mentor to make up for his disgraceful behavior."

Ronald looked at William with confused interest. Had he detected a note of jealousy in that cool voice? “I don’t have romantic feelings for him, you know. I love Grell, sure, but he’s not my type. Besides, he made me. Well, not ‘made me’, made me, but—”

"Are you quite finished?" interrupted William.

Ronald sighed. “Sorry.”

"I never accused you of having romantic feelings for him," William said. "If that were a concern, I would look to the ladies in General Affairs, before I would look to Grell. You flirt with them incessantly."

Ronald chuckled. “Yeah, well…it’s just for fun. They know I’m just playing. So, why do you get that look on your face every time I talk about Sutcliff Senpai, if you know he and I aren’t a thing?”

"I would get this look on my face in response to _anyone_ expressing admiration for that idiot,” insisted William. “If it were up to me, I would have his glasses and scythe permanently. Personnel still sees value in him as an officer, however, so all that I can do is try to direct him to his full potential.”

Ronald grimaced uncomfortably, watching as his mentor sat down across from Undertaker and began to file his nails as he waited for the prisoner to sober up. “Weren’t you two friends, once?”

"We trained together," answered William, "but we were never ‘friends’. He’s far too annoying, for that."

"But I’ll bet you’d be sad if he got killed," challenged Ronald, refusing to believe the handsome brunet had no feelings for Grell at all. Even when he was being impossible, the redhead managed to be endearing. William was the only Shinigami he knew that expressed nothing but contempt for him.

William sighed and bowed his head in a tired manner. “I suppose I would suffer some regret, if Grell were to parish. He’s like the bothersome sibling that steals your rolls at the dinner table and gets a pass from your parents.”

Ronald smirked. “Huh. I didn’t know you thought that way. Do you remember your parents, Spears Senpai? Or anything else from your human life?”

William shook his head. “None of us do. Whoever we were as mortals is dead and gone, once our souls transcend into Shinigami spirits. Being given this gift of immortality and purpose is a great privilege.”

"Well yeah," agreed Ron, "but don’t you ever wonder? Do you ever think ya might run into someone that knew you while you were human, when you’re out on a job or just visiting the mortal realm?"

"I wouldn’t know them if I did," assured William.

"But wouldn’t they know _you_? Like, if someone that used to be a friend or a family member saw ya and recognized you. That would cause some trouble, wouldn’t it?”

"That will never happen," explained William. He turned to face him, and his gaze held Ron’s as he reached out and laid a gloved hand on his right shoulder. "Those of us created from mortal death aren’t the same people we were when we were human, Ronald. We generally don’t even resemble our former human selves. Our physical appearance as Shinigami is formed according to our nature. It reflects whom we truly are inside, in a way that our human bodies could never do. That is the reason that the divine is so selective about which souls are fit to transcend and do this work. Had you been created as I was, nobody that knew you from your former life would ever recognize you, so you may as well put it out of your mind."

"Hmm." Ronald looked through the glass at Grell. "So what does that make Sutcliff Senpai, if our Shinigami forms are based on personality?"

William released his shoulder and snorted softly. “Chaos incarnate, apparently.”

 

* * *

Grell saw the Undertaker moving from his peripheral vision, and he looked up from his task to watch him. The prisoner’s head lolled, his silver hair falling to one side as he came out of his stupor. Disoriented eyes blinked at Grell from beneath mussed, feathered locks of pale hair, a yawn surfaced from the slack mouth. Undertaker smacked his lips and shook his head, attempting to clear it.

"You’re in a padded cell," supplied Grell helpfully as he set the emery board down, "In our top-security ward, if you haven’t already guessed. Did you enjoy sweet dreams, my dashing silver spook?"

 

* * *

Undertaker frowned in confusion, but everything became clear quite rapidly. His arms were crossed over his chest like a mummy’s, and they were bound tightly that way via straightjacket. He felt the drool on his chin and he tried to wipe his face on his shoulder.

“‘Morning,” he greeted absently, still feeling sluggish. “I’m not really fit to entertain, but if you’ll just bear with me…”

Grell chuckled and got out of the chair. “You poor, daft thing. You believe you’re in your shop, don’t you?”

He walked around the table and he produced a handkerchief from his vest pocket. He cupped Undertaker’s chin and he wiped his mouth off, before taking the liberty of brushing the hair out of his eyes with his fingers.

"There," said the crimson reaper in satisfaction, winking playfully at him. "That’s much better, isn’t it? My, you do have the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen. Why do you hide them, all the time?"

Starting to understand his predicament, the retired reaper worked some moisture into his mouth and swallowed, before answering. “I can’t work among humans with my peepers showing, after all. They’d give me away.”

"Ah, yes." Grell nodded in understanding, and he caressed Undertaker’s jaw before stepping back. He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head, gazing at him with curious, long-lashed eyes. "I do know a thing or two about hiding one’s nature from the wretched mortals. That makes sense."

Undertaker smiled at him. “Did they send you in here to bat your false eyelashes at me and gain my trust?”

Grell blinked. “Actually, I’m not wearing my falsies today, thank you very much. William didn’t give me the chance to make myself up properly before coming to see you, so do forgive my ghastly appearance.”

Undertaker peered at him narrowly, able to make out some details due to his proximity. “I’ve seen ‘ghastly’ before many times, Miss Sutcliff. You don’t fit the description.”

He saw the way the high cheekbones colored at the compliment, and he smiled again. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what’s to become of me, my dear? I don’t think they put me in this contraption as a fashion statement.”

He looked down at the beige colored getup he was in, and he flapped his bound elbows. “I like the sleeves, but the color needs improvement.”

Grell laughed in delight. “I like a man who can make the best of his situation. I still haven’t forgiven you for hitting me in the face, though.”

Undertaker gave a woeful sigh. “I beg your pardon for that. Ordinarily, I would never strike a lady. I couldn’t just stand there and allow you to cut me down, however.”

Grell shrugged. “Fair enough, I suppose.” He started to return to his seat, but Undertaker stopped him.

"Wait," said the funeral director. "Would you mind scratching my nose, first?" He made a face as he tried to sooth the itch.

Grinning with amusement, the redhead obliged him. Undertaker shut his eyes and enjoyed the relief provided by Grell’s nails scratching the bridge of his nose. “Thanks, lovely.”

Grell caught his lower lip between his sharp teeth, and another maidenly blush spread over his cheeks. “You can be quite charming for a lunatic, can’t you?”

Undertaker smiled broadly at him. “And do your associates ever accuse _you_ of being sane, Grell?”

The redhead took that into consideration as he returned to his seat. “Hardly ever,” he admitted, crossing his legs. He threaded his fingers together over his knee and gazed over the top of his crimson-framed glasses at the Undertaker, giving him bedroom eyes. “From one lunatic to another, then, how do you feel about the chance to repent?”

“‘Repent’?” echoed Undertaker curiously. “For which sin, might I ask?”

"Oh, don’t be coy," huffed Grell. "You know exactly what I’m talking about."

"No, I really don’t." Undertaker painted on a convincingly puzzled expression. "I haven’t the foggiest idea of what you mean, Mr. Sutcliff."

"For your disgusting little zombie parade aboard that ship," answered Grell in lofty tones. "Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t shy away from death, blood or gore, but that was just revolting."

"What a cruel thing to say about my children," sighed Undertaker forlornly.

"They stank! And you did it just to see if you could. The authorities won’t stand for that, so the best you can do for yourself right now is to redeem yourself in their eyes, as I have."

"You mean, allow them to slip the collar back ‘round my neck," corrected Undertaker with a frozen, grim smile. "If you want honesty from me, you’ll have to practice some of your own."

Grell ran his tongue over his teeth in thought, and Undertaker’s gaze was drawn to the motion. “You want honesty? All right then, I’ll give you honesty.”

Grell’s playful manner faded as he stood up and leaned over the table, affixing the prisoner with troubled, vivid eyes. “They aren’t going to let you out of here any other way, Undertaker. Why couldn’t you just go on playing the role of the creepy old funeral director? Now you’ve gotten yourself into a bind, and I’m stuck in the middle of it!”

"Who says you have to be?" Undertaker’s smile faded too. "What would you lose if you told them you want no part in it? A pay raise, perhaps?"

Grell made a dismissive gesture and rolled his eyes, plopping back down in his seat. “Never you mind.”

"Oh, but I’m curious, now." Undertaker began to smile, entertained by the redhead’s sudden discomfort. "What made you want to get involved in dear old Undertaker’s case, hmm?"

"My supervisor asked me to," snapped Grell. He huffed and wriggled in his seat to get more comfortable. He cast a sharp look at him when Undertaker laughed. "What is it you find so amusing?"

"You," answered the ancient without hesitation. He shook his bangs out of his eyes and he winked at him. "Watching you squirm. You’re a darling. You know that, don’t you?"

Grell smiled impulsively and blushed at the compliment. “You must say that to all the girls.”

Undertaker kept smiling. “Would that make you jealous?”

The door opened, and a pair of guard personnel entered with a tray of finger food and a tea set made of durable, shatterproof materials.

"It’s lunchtime," announced the female on the left. "You may want to leave the room, Officer Sutcliff. We have to unfasten the prisoner’s jacket to allow him to eat."

Grell considered the food for a moment, and he intercepted the male guard when he approached with a tranquilizer injector. “How do you expect him to eat, if you dope him up with that?”

"He’s too dangerous to let free without sedatives," objected the guard. "We have our orders, sir."

"He’ll just end up drooling into his plate," insisted Grell. "Now shoo. Just leave him as he is and I’ll take care of it. Go on…get out."

The hapless guards sputtered half-hearted protests as the Dispatch officer drove them before him like chickens, waving his arms until they were out the door again. He turned around to face Undertaker, and he clucked his tongue and smiled.

"Really, some people. How can they expect you to enjoy a meal if you’re too sauced on drugs to taste it?"

Undertaker smirked. “Then do you intend to feed me, little rose?”

Clearly basking under the attention, Grell poured the tea into the cup. “It’s the least I can do for you, if you insist on staying locked up in here. Do you take sugar?”

"Three lumps, please."

Grell dropped the sugar into the tea and he stirred it delicately. “Cream?”

Undertaker shook his head. “No cream, thanks.”

Grell set the spoon aside, and he carried the plate of sandwich squares to the table and set it down before Undertaker. He put the teacup down and he picked up one of the sandwiches curiously, opening it up to inspect it.

"Hmm, roast beef. I hope that will do."

"It will do just fine," assured the ancient. He was quite surprised and delighted when the redhead sat down length-wise in his lap and put one arm around his neck. "My, my…is this how you intend to feed me?"

"Well, these chairs don’t exactly move," excused Grell with a flirty smile of his own. "Where else am I to sit while I feed you? I do hope I’m not too heavy."

While it wasn’t really possible for any reaper to be as heavy as a human of equal size, Grell was exceptionally light. “Not at all,” assured the Undertaker. “You’re as light as air, my lady.”

Grell rewarded him with a feminine giggle that might have made someone else uncomfortable, but Undertaker rather enjoyed it. “Then let’s see about getting you fed. Open up.”

Undertaker accepted the edge of the sandwich and he bit down. The meat was a little chewy, but it was better than nothing. Grell brought the teacup to his lips after he swallowed, and Undertaker thanked him before having a sip.

Grell wiped his mouth off with the napkin on the plate, and he fed him another bite. “Didn’t you enjoy reaping mortals, Undertaker?”

The prisoner shrugged as best he could, with his arms so tightly bound. “In my youth, certainly. I admit the cinematic records are usually entertaining.”

"Then what made you decide to stop?" Grell gave him another sip of tea and waited politely for his answer.

"I wanted to know more about how mortals _live_ ,” answered the ancient. “Not just how they die. I wanted to understand them better, and I grew weary of living by the schedules of others. As a funeral director, I was able to observe humans in all their states of being, make my own hours and even get sloppy drunk on the job, if I wanted to.”

Grell chuckled at that. “Ron suffered a paycut recently for coming into work with a hangover.” He sighed. “I told Will I didn’t think that was fair. He drank on his own time, after all. Just because his eyes were bloodshot and he still smelled of ale wasn’t a good enough reason to punish him that way. He still did his job.”

 

* * *

In the observation room, Ronald smirked at William. “Yeah, that was mean of you, boss.”

William rolled his eyes subtly. “I can’t make exceptions for you, regardless of our relationship outside of work. Now be quiet, so I can hear them.”

Ronald shrugged. “I’d say I can’t believe he sat in his lap like that, but it _is_ Grell. You knew he was going to do something like this, didn’t you?”

William sighed, resigning himself to the chatter. “If you must know, I was counting on it. Sutcliff is infamous for his flirtations with men he finds attractive. His continuous references to Undertaker’s _'handsome smile'_ and _'shocking beauty_ ' in his reports of the Campania incident left little doubt in my mind that Undertaker has reached his short list of 'hunks'.”

"He thinks his smile is handsome?" Ronald scratched his chin in confusion, and he shrugged. "I think it’s creepy as all get out, but whatever works for him. Hey, you know this means you’ve got some competition on his crush list, right? Maybe we won’t have to keep hiding things from him, soon."

"I don’t insist on keeping our personal relationship hidden just to spare Grell’s feelings," objected William. "He would get over it and move on to another target—probably that demon he fancies so much. I think Grell is aware that he and I aren’t compatible. His flirtations serve only to annoy me and amuse him, now."

"That’s good to know." Ronald subtly leaned in closer and he tilted his head back to speak into the taller Shinigami’s ear. "So, what _are_ you waiting for?”

"For you to have some common sense," William said, shivering a little in response to the sensual feel of Ron’s breath against his ear. "How would it look to senior management, if they learned that I was in a romantic relationship with one of my staff members?"

Ronald shrugged. “You never know. Maybe they’ll congratulate you on snagging a hot young thing like me, eh?”

William started to give a sarcastic reply to that, but he got distracted when Ronald patted him on the ass. He hastily pushed the younger man’s hand away with a remonstrating look. “How many times must I tell you not to—”

"Oh my death, he’s gonna kiss him!" Ronald wasn’t even looking at him any more, but through the observation glass.

Admittedly thrown off, William followed his gaze and he frowned fiercely at what he saw within the cell. Undertaker had finished his meal and Grell did indeed look like he was about to kiss him.

_"You have a crumb, right there at the corner of your mouth,"_ Grell was saying. _"Oh, look! The napkin fell to the floor. I suppose I’ll have to take care of this more creatively."_

 

* * *

Undertaker’s grin broadened as Grell’s mouth descended to his. It stopped a hair’s breath away, just as their lips were about to touch.

"Do you want me to take care of that crumb, now?"

Undertaker enjoyed a moment of sensual excitement. “Please do.”

Grell’s lips brushed against his, and his tongue caressed the outer lines of them, before licking away the imaginary crumb. Undertaker parted his lips and waited, giving him a silent invitation before acting. When the moist tongue slipped past his lips, he allowed his own to meet it, and he let himself go and kissed Grell with lusty vigor.

The redhead’s husky little moan was nearly as enchanting as the way his mouth surrendered to his, and Undertaker didn’t even feel the cut of his teeth on his tongue as he delved in to explore. Grell’s fingers slid through his hair, and his other hand splayed over Undertaker’s bound chest, to rest over the hand crossed over to his shoulder.

William T. Spears suddenly materialized in the room and cleared his throat, startling both of them. He adjusted his glasses with his ever-present death scythe, and he stared Grell down with a look that fairly dripped with disapproval.

"Sutcliff," William said coldly. "A word. _Now_.”

Grell looked up at the supervisor with an expression akin to a dog expecting a kick, and Undertaker’s amusement was laced with oddly protective feelings. “Enjoying your power, are you?”

William looked at him with surprise, still respectful of him despite the situation. “I beg pardon?”

Undertaker glanced at the crimson reaper, who had climbed off of his lap. “He can’t defend himself, you know. He just has to take whatever punishment you mete out, without the chance to retaliate. To kick around someone that can’t fight back is a cowardly act, as I see it.”

Grell was now looking at him with soft, surprised eyes, and William had two spots of color high on his cheeks. “I don’t kick him around,” said the brunet defensively.

"I’ve seen you pop him on the noggin with that pole of yours, before," Undertaker said, smiling in a manner that was more predatory than friendly. "Doesn’t take a big man to hit someone he knows won’t hit him back."

"This from the reaper who left him beaten and face down in the sea?"

Undertaker shrugged. “The difference, Mr. Spears, is that he could hit me back. He did, in fact; and he left a nice bruise for it.”

"Are you implying that I’m abusive to my staff?" William’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on his scythe. "I have a world of respect for you, sir, but I won’t tolerate slander."

"That’s the thing, isn’t it?" Undertaker’s grin sharpened further, and his eyes glinted beneath the disheveled pallor of his bangs. "It isn’t slander if it’s true. Just think about that, the next time you go to ‘discipline’ one of your hounds, Mr. Spears."

Grell suddenly snapped out of his romantic daze, and he frowned at Undertaker. “Hey, I’m no hound! How dare you compare me to—”

William grabbed the redhead by the arm and nudged him. “I think we’ve carried on long enough,” he said sternly. “Come, Grell. We have a matter to discuss.”

 

* * *

Grell resentfully yanked his arm out of William’s grasp, once they were out of the cell and in the hallway. “You _told_ me to be nice to him, Will,” he reminded acidly. “It isn’t my fault you got jealous.”

William stopped and stared at him. “Jealous?”

Grell flipped his hair. “Why else would you react so strongly to the sight of me kissing another man? Sadly for you, this ship has sailed. I’m done with trying to—”

William pulled him unceremoniously into a side room, his jaw clenching hard with agitation as he cut off his speech. “Keep your bloody voice down,” he warned him. “I won’t have you embarrassing us both in front of the prison personnel.”

Grell gave him a sulking look, nearly pouting. “Why did you interrupt? I might have convinced him to give your proposal a try, if you hadn’t come charging in like some jealous—”

"I’m not jealous," interrupted William.

Grell rolled his eyes. “That’s why you rushed in to tear me from the arms of—”

"His arms were securely bound to his chest," reminded William.

Grell huffed with annoyance and planted his hands on his hips. “Why, you pithy, aggravating ball-buster! You know what I meant, and you interrupted my fine work in a fit of envy. Just admit it, William. I’ve stopped pursuing you since the Campania and you can hardly stand it! Why else would you tell me to cozy up to Undertaker, only to rush in and tear me away from him just as things were getting interesting?”

William took a deep breath, and then he exhaled slowly. “There are things that I could say right now, but I will refrain. I stopped you because your behavior was inappropriate, Sutcliff. Yes, I asked you to extend some kindness to Undertaker, to talk to him and try to convince him to see reason. I most certainly did _not_ ask you to give him a lap dance.”

Grell’s brows shot up. “A lap dance? Oh, William. My dear, naïve William! I should laugh myself sick!” He snickered behind his hand, and upon seeing the thunderous look on the brunet’s face, he cleared his throat and sobered up a bit. “You’ve obviously never seen a lap dance or been a recipient of one in your life.”

"Regardless of my personal experiences with lap dances," William said sternly, "your behavior in there was not appropriate. You need to practice some restraint or—"

"Why?"

William paused, frowning. “Why?”

Grell nodded. “Yes, _why_? Senior management obviously wants him back into the fold, and you obviously thought that I was the reaper to make that happen. If it will help achieve the goal, why _shouldn’t_ I employ a bit of ‘inappropriate’ behavior? It isn’t as though either of us were naked, and there wasn’t any touching.”

Grell paused and smiled, absently rubbing his arms. “Mm, can that man ever kiss, though.”

William sighed. “Focus, please.”

Grell shook himself out of it, and he combed his fingers through his long hair. “My point is, William, that you can’t ask me to persuade him without allowing me to use every method at my disposal. If that makes you too uncomfortable, then maybe you should find someone else.”

William lowered his gaze thoughtfully. “I suppose you aren’t wrong about that. I’ll consider the matter and discuss it further with you tomorrow.”

He couldn’t banish the blow to his confidence he’d felt when Undertaker basically informed him that he was a cruel, cowardly bully. Handling the ancient wasn’t the only thing that William had to mull over.

 

* * *

-To be continued 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

"Will, I think I could do my job better if you gave us more privacy."

William looked up from the paperwork he was filling out, and he frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

Grell took a seat in the chair opposite his desk, uninvited. He crossed his legs in a graceful gesture and he shrugged, absently adjusting his red coat. “Not that I don’t adore the audience as an actress, but every time I start to use my charms on our handsome guest, you come barging in shaking your finger at me.”

William grimaced with annoyance, recalling the last incident. This was the second day of Undertaker’s captivity, and Grell had taken it upon himself to feed him each of his daily meals. So far, Undertaker was cooperating with the guards when they bound him in his straight jacket for these meals. His cell was equipped with a small half-bathroom so that he could relieve himself in privacy, but he would have to be escorted to have a bath or shower. It came as no surprise to him when Grell volunteered to be his escort for bath days, too.

"I’m afraid you have already begun to invest too much into this," William said. "It is only day two and already, you’ve appointed yourself his keeper in all things. Your task in this situation is to convince him that it would be in his best interests to wear the glasses and serve our society again, not to coddle him like his personal butler."

Grell gave him a patiently exasperated look. “And how better to convince a man of the error of his ways than through coddling? You said it yourself, William; it’s time for the carrot. Do you want me to make it a juicy one, or not?”

The talk of food made William’s stomach growl, and he checked his pocket watch. It was nearly lunchtime. “I _do_ want you to do your best,” he assured the redhead, “but you shouldn’t require special conditions in order to do so. All interactions with Undertaker must be monitored, for now. He’s too dangerous to do otherwise.”

Grell raised both brows. “Well if he’s too blasted dangerous for me to be alone with him for twenty minutes, how can you possibly expect to free him and hand over his death scythe?”

"If he agrees to work for Dispatch again, he will be required to sign a binding contract," explained William. He adjusted his glasses and shut his eyes, mentally reviewing the stipulations on the contract itself. "This won’t be a standard variety contract. It will be Faustian in nature—similar to the sort of contract forged between demons and their chosen victims. He will be required to wear the glasses again, and from then on he must follow the tenants laid down for him by our superiors. The only way he can disobey those tenants will be to deliberately put the glasses aside again and resume being a prisoner."

Grell’s expression took on a confused look, and William sighed and explained further. “Undertaker isn’t at all stable, Grell. He can’t be redeemed in the same way you were—which, by the way, is not yet complete. It will require a tight leash to keep him in check, but his talents are far too valuable to our organization to lock them away permanently, without giving him the opportunity to serve with them. In addition to being a powerful fighter and reaper, he also possesses the gift of death sight. He can predict deaths on his own, and that is one reason why his reaping count was always higher than other dispatch officers.”

He could see the dawning expression of comprehension on Grell’s face, and it didn’t surprise him that the redhead apparently didn’t find it to his liking. “Then we’re trying to turn him into a slave?”

William lowered his gaze to his paperwork, staring right through it as he struggled with his own feelings on the matter. “He’s left us no choice.”

"Bollocks," snapped Grell, standing up. He was staring at William like he was Dr. Frankenstein. "Surely you can see the injustice of this, Will! I can see it, and I’m half-mad myself—according to you. I can fight him, and I can agree that he needs to be locked up if he’s going to keep committing crimes against the organization, but to _compel_ him that way?”

"I’ve never seen you defend the dignity of that demon you fancy so much, and he’s in a Faustian contract with his young Earl."

"That’s because Sebby made that agreement of his own choosing!"

William raised a brow. “And if you had bothered listening to me, you would have heard the part where I told you Undertaker must first _sign_ the contract, before it goes into effect. If he doesn’t agree to it, he won’t be bound by it.”

"But he’ll still be locked away," reasoned Grell.

"You just told me you understand the need for that," reminded William calmly.

"I…I do," faltered Grell, his brows furrowing with confusion. "I just find it unsavory to offer freedom that isn’t freedom. The ‘carrot’ is poisoned, Will. It doesn’t sit right with me, coercing him this way. Eternal imprisonment or eternal servitude?" Grell shook his head, his vivid hair catching the light with the motions. "I think I’d rather kill him. I can’t believe even _you_ would be this cold.”

_That_ comment provoked a violent reaction in William. With typical Shinigami speed, he jumped over the table and he grabbed his colleague by the vest, pinning him against the wall. Grell put his hands up and stared at him with bracing dread as William snarled in his face.

"Do you think that I _want_ this? I have admired that man since before you even knew who he _was_ , Grell Sutcliff. I’ve spent my entire career aspiring to be _half_ the reaper he was, and now it falls upon me to bring him back into the fold, by any means necessary!”

He started to raise his scythe, but then Undertaker’s sarcastic words rang in his skull like a damning bell of proclamation.

_"Doesn’t take a big man to hit someone he knows won’t hit him back."_

William stopped himself, hating the ugly feeling of shame washing over him, but accepting it like a cleansing fire. He let go of Grell, and he stepped away from him and turned his back to him. He swallowed before speaking, reigning in his emotions with more difficulty than usual.

"Undertaker’s own actions led us to this conundrum. You can either assist as directed, or I can take you off of this case. I put you on it because I believe you have the greatest chance of reaching him, but it it’s too much for you to handle, I can find someone else. Those are your two choices, Grell, and it’s more than I was given when I received my orders concerning this matter."

There was silence behind him, and William turned to face the other reaper. “Well? What will it be? At least under contract, he’ll have some semblance of freedom. He’ll be given psychiatric treatment to manage his condition if he wishes, and he will be free to come and go on a schedule, like the rest of us. Otherwise, he will remain a prisoner for as long as this facility can hold him. Which do you think is better, Grell?”

The troubled look on Sutcliff’s face wasn’t normal for him, and William found himself relating completely. None of them really _chose_ this life. The divine chose them for it, and in the case of the oldest ones like Undertaker, formed them out of nothing for this purpose.

"Choose, Grell. I will abide your decision and I promise there will be no fallout for you, should you wish to step aside."

Grell heaved a sigh and lowered his gaze. “I’ll stay, then. You’ll never get him to sign your bloody contract, without my help.”

William relaxed a bit, and he nearly smiled. “Good. Go on have lunch with him, then. Don’t forget to file reports on any significant progress you make.”

Grell nodded and straightened his bow tie. He started to leave, but William stopped him as he opened the door.

"Grell."

The redhead turned around to look at him curiously. William used his scythe to open the blinds covering his window, and he looked out over the Shinigami city. “I’ll see what I can do about arranging more privacy, if things look promising at the end of the week. That’s all I can give you, for now.”

Grell smiled faintly and nodded.

 

* * *

Undertaker watched his host as Grell finished cutting up the sausages and took his seat in his lap. “You could be enjoying finer dining than this, right now.”

Grell glanced up from his task and he winked at him. “But the company wouldn’t be as nice.”

Undertaker chuckled with delight. “Can’t say I’ve ever been accused of being nice company, before.”

"But you _are_ ,” insisted Grell. “I never find myself bored, around you.”

"That’s quite a compliment." Undertaker grinned, and he leaned back a little to make room for him when Grell took his favorite seat in his lap. "I’d probably be even more entertaining, if I could use my hands."

"Sorry," apologized Grell brightly. "They’ve insisted that you be in the restraints whenever you have visitors; even me."

"Afraid I might molest you, are they?"

Grell brushed the silvery bangs away from his eyes and he smiled at him. “It’s hardly possible for you to molest _me_ , my dark, gorgeous legend. I’d be ever so willing.”

"Now, now," admonished the ancient, "It’s not nice to tease, Mr. Sutcliff."

Grell collected some mashed potato on the fork, and then speared a small bite of sausage on the end of it. “Who’s teasing? Just because we’ve crossed scythes before, doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to you. Far from it, in fact. Fighting turns me on.”

"Does it, now?" Undertaker was laughing softly under his breath. "I never would have guessed."

Grell chuckled too, and he blew on the fork before bringing it to Undertaker’s lips. “Open up, now.”

Undertaker obliged, still laughing a little. He knew there was an ulterior motive behind the flamboyant redhead’s visits, but he was enjoying his company, nonetheless. After feeding him a bite, Grell picked up a separate fork and took a bite from his own plate. He washed it down with a sip of tea, and then he offered the drink to Undertaker.

"Funny how you’re eating from a different plate, but drinking from the same cup," observed the mortician. "My food isn’t drugged, is it?"

Grell shook his head. “Of _course_ not! Here, I’ll show you.” He took another bite, this time from Undertaker’s plate. “See? Why would I eat it myself, if it was laced? Besides, they’ll just deliver it with a syringe or injection gun, if they want to dope you.”

"Good point." Undertaker grinned and nudged him a little with his elbow. "Get it? ‘ _Point’_?”

Grell laughed, tossing his head back in delight. He’d tied the glorious, crimson mane back for the meal, to avoid getting any hair in the food, but some of it came loose with his actions. Undertaker didn’t mind.

"Yes, I get it," assured the younger reaper. He clucked his tongue and rather than reach for the other fork, he simply used his own to spear up more food for the prisoner. "You have a talent for finding comedic value in almost anything. I wonder how you do that. You don’t mind eating from my fork, do you?"

Undertaker shook his head. “Not at all. And to answer your question, I’ve had ages of practice. Eventually, you learn to _look_ for things to laugh about. It keeps my head quieter, you see. Makes it easier to think.”

Grell bit his lower lip in thought, and Undertaker watched a spot of crimson well out from beneath one of the pointed teeth as it pierced the skin. “Careful there, my dear. You’re bleeding.”

Grell shook himself out of his reverie and he licked his lips, looking away self-consciously. “I hardly notice it when I do that, anymore. I know it’s unsightly.”

"Who told you that?" wondered the ancient.

Grell shrugged, lowering his gaze as he fed him the bite of food. “Will. He says it makes me look like a maniac when I accidentally bite my lip. I’ve tried to break the habit, but—”

Undertaker swallowed the food he was eating and he interrupted him. “Nonsense. If your dear William wants to see what a maniac looks like, he should come visit me in here. I don’t much care for him.”

Grell smiled a little. “He would be devastated to hear you say that.”

Undertaker shrugged, hardly caring. “I don’t have much use for people that mistreat their subjects, staff or little ones.”

"So I’ve noticed." Grell lifted his eyes to gaze into the Undertaker’s. His lip was still bleeding a little, though it was rapidly healing.

"Come here," urged the ancient.

Grell turned his head a bit, giving him a sidelong look of suspicion. “Why?”

Undertaker smiled engagingly at him. There was something a bit irresistible about a shy Grell, to him, and he really enjoyed their brief kiss, yesterday. “Because you’ve still got a spot of blood on your lip, and I’d like to clean it off for you. Just think of it as me returning a favor from yesterday.”

Grell cast a covert look around, and Undertaker guessed where the hidden observation window was by the way his eyes briefly lingered on the wall behind him. “All right, then.”

Undertaker tilted his head back as Grell closed the distance between their mouths. He gently ran his tongue over the plush, abused lip and he licked up the salty red blood on it, before closing his own lips over it and sucking on it lightly. He eased his tongue into Grell’s mouth and reminded him that he was just as thorough with his kisses as he was with his work.

Grell’s soft little whimper of desire touched Undertaker deeply, awakening desire for company as much as the desire for sex. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d just held a living being in his arms, perhaps stroking their hair as they kissed and just…embracing them. He strained against the bindings affixing his arms to his chest, finally suffering discomfort from the immobilization. He tried to make up for being unable to use his hands, treating Grell’s entire mouth as a lover’s body. He slid his tongue deep, only to withdraw it and trace the redhead’s teeth and tease the roof of his mouth.

Grell dropped the fork on the floor and combed his fingers through Undertaker’s hair. He eagerly accepted every thrust of the older reaper’s tongue, returning it with enthusiasm. Undertaker tried to squirm into a position that wouldn’t result in poking, but it wasn’t really possible under the circumstances. The feel of his arousal pressing against the bottom of his thighs seemed to turn Grell on more. He moaned in a delightfully promiscuous way, his voice a husky song of need in his throat, and against Undertaker’s lips.

Grell withdrew with reluctance, suddenly, his breath coming fast and sharp with excitement. “You see? Any more of that and I’ll disgrace myself. I have a weakness for a good kiss, you see.”

Undertaker—also breathing heavily—laughed with amusement. “Now I know the key to defeating you.”

Grell shifted in his lap and he grinned. “Mmm, is that what I think it is?”

Undertaker grinned back. “Seeing as they’ve got me wrapped up tighter than a mummy, I can’t really hide it.” He looked down at the tent in Grell’s trousers. “At least I know my condition is shared.”

Grell scooted over a little and glanced down with curiously raised brows. “Oh my. Mr. Undertaker, I think you might cause some envy in the locker room.”

The mortician guffawed, and when he quieted down, his stomach growled noisily. “Ah, pardon me,” he chuckled.

"Oh," Grell exclaimed, looking around. Seeing that the fork he’d been using was on the floor, he shrugged and picked up the other one. "Where are my manners? Let’s finish eating, shall we?"

He fed the ancient another bite full and he watched as he chewed and swallowed. His lips parted, and offered a soft observation. “You really don’t seem mad to me.”

Undertaker smiled at him. “I don’t usually seem mad to myself either, but everyone keeps accusing me of it, so it must be true.”

Grell smiled back. “Sometimes other people can be wrong, you know. You’ve never killed any mortals, the way I have.”

Undertaker raised his brow. “Haven’t I?”

"You have? Who?"

"A few people, actually," answered the mortician. "But it was while I was on the job. They got in the way, so I reaped them. I even got suspended once, because of that sort of thing."

Grell nodded. “Did they take your scythe and replace it with something small and humiliating, like scissors?”

Undertaker chuckled again, and he shook his head. “I can’t say that ever happened to me. I simply had my privileges as an officer temporarily revoked, and my scythe temporarily confiscated.”

He sighed, thinking of his scythe. “I miss it already.”

Grell looked sympathetic. “I assure you, it’s locked away safely. I saw it just this morning on my way here.”

Undertaker took some comfort in that—not because of it being locked away, but because he could see in Grell’s eyes that he understood the pain of being parted with one’s scythe. They continued to eat, and Undertaker noticed that the redhead became increasingly quieter and more subdued with each moment. He seemed to be deep in thought over something, and his usual perky confidence was slowly melting away to reveal a more somber side of Grell. Having never seen this side of him before, Undertaker watched him curiously.

"That’s a long expression for such a pretty face," he observed. "What’s got you so glum, all the sudden? I thought you and I were having fun."

Grell looked at him, and his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. I was only thinking of…work.”

"Hmm." Undertaker didn’t press the issue. Soon he would be alone again, with nothing to do except stare at the walls and nobody to talk to except for the voices of the dead and the fates, rummaging around in his skull.

"Undertaker, may I ask you something?"

He nodded, and he took a sip of the tea Grell offered to him.

"If you had to choose between servitude or death, which would it be?"

He looked up at the redhead, his eyes speaking louder than words as Grell took the cup away. “Which one do _you_ think, my dear?”

Grell nodded, smiling in approval. “That’s what I thought.” He set the cup aside, and he sighed. He combed his fingers through his vivid hair, brushing his bangs away from his eyes. “I _told_ them so.”

"I’m not coming back," Undertaker said firmly, guessing where this was going. He already understood why they would want him back, even after his recent actions. It was only _because_ of his recent actions that Dispatch had an excuse to try and force him into service, again. They would have had no choice but to leave him alone, if he hadn’t gotten found out on the Campania.

"Believe me, I’m cursing my curiosity right now," Undertaker explained to his unusually thoughtful visitor, "but what’s done is done and I won’t be drafted into service. If they want to end me, tell them to get on with it. I’m getting bored in here, and you’re the only splash of color in this place."

Ironically, Grell’s pale cheeks colored charmingly at his words, and he looked like he wanted to kiss him again. “I didn’t think you’d be easy to convince.” He toyed with the rough material of Undertaker’s straightjacket, running his shiny, manicured nails over it. “I should warn you that I’m going to keep trying, if only because I don’t believe a reaper of your caliber should be locked away or disposed of. You are better than that.”

He gracefully swung his legs over and got off of Undertaker’s lap to collect the fork he’d dropped, earlier. He paused as he bent over, and he cast a smirk over his shoulder at the older reaper. Undertaker took his eyes off of the perfect, heart shape of his little rump and he grinned and shrugged at him, the gesture again hampered by his bonds.

"What?"

"Dirty old man, you," Grell accused, but he was grinning. He picked up the fork and placed it on the table, next to the empty plates and drink. "Is there anything more I can do for you, before I go?"

"Scratch my nose?" Undertaker crinkled said facial part, trying to sooth a sudden itch.

Grell obligingly did as he was asked, bending over the ancient as he did so. He paused when he finished, his gaze meeting Undertaker’s. “I can bring you something to read, later on. I assume you like books?”

"Of course," agreed Undertaker. "I prefer limericks and satire, if you can manage that."

Grell smirked. “I think I can drudge up something for you. Until later, then.”

 

* * *

Four more days passed, and Ronald noticed how despondent William seemed. He joined him in his office after work hours on the fourth night, concerned for his mental and emotional state of mind.

"Come in," William said when Ronald knocked and announced himself.

The younger reaper poked his head in and smiled, waving. “Hey. Mission accomplished.” He came in and he retrieved his record book from his blazer. “It’s ready to go to the vault.”

William looked down at the book placed upon his desk, his face an unreadable mask. “Good.”

Ronald frowned at him. Lately, it seemed like William’s edge was dulled. He could usually get his staff hopping like they were on hot coals with just one, cold glance. Since they brought Undertaker in, William hesitated sometimes, as if he second-guessed himself. He’d even begun to offer some encouragement to his staff, which he had never done even once, since Ronald knew him.

"What’s eating you?"

William looked up from the book, his handsome face brooding. “I’ve been put into a very uncomfortable position,” he said tonelessly, “ _That_ is what’s ‘eating’ me.”

Ronald grimaced, and he approached William’s desk and circled around behind it—and the man sitting there. “It’s more than that,” he insisted, and he placed his hands on William’s shoulders to begin rubbing them. Feeling the tension there, he grimaced and shook his head.

"You are _way_ too wound up, and you haven’t been acting like yourself, lately.” He leaned over to speak into the brunet’s ear. “I’ve seen you stressed before, but never unsure of yourself. Some of the guys in our department are noticing it, and it’s making them nervous.”

"And of course," sighed William, shutting his eyes, "it falls upon me to assuage their concerns."

Ron shrugged, and he continued to rub the tension away. “You’re the supervisor. There’s nobody higher up than you except on the top floor of the Main Branch. Hey, you know what you need?”

"A holiday," answered William without hesitation, his head drooping from the massage.

"Well yeah, that too." Ronald stopped and reached into an inner pocket of his blazer. "I was thinking more along the lines of hooch, though." He withdrew a silver flask and set it on the desk.

William looked at it, and then up at his lover. He raised a dark brow. “I do hope you haven’t been imbibing while on the clock.”

"Who, me?" Ronald spread his hands and smiled, shaking his head. "Not a chance. I learned my lesson the last time you caught me."

He smiled. William was as strict a disciplinarian in the bedroom as he was at work. The memory of being bare-assed and face-down over his lap was still quite vivid in his mind, and he impulsively reached down with one hand to rub his butt at the memory of the spanking he got. He put his arms around William from behind, and he bent over him to nuzzle the side of his face.

"I keep it on me for after work. Sometimes I just want a little nip, and I don’t feel like going to a club or a pub to get it."

William regarded the flask quietly, and when he spoke, the question threw Ronald off completely. “Ronald, do you think I abuse my power?”

The blond pulled away a little to look at him, searching that perfect, still face for any clue as to why he would ask such a thing. “What do you mean?”

William turned his head to meet his gaze. “Am I abusive to you all?”

Uncomfortable with the question, Ronald found he couldn’t hold his gaze. He looked down and he shrugged. “Well, you’re a hardass for sure, but abusive? I don’t think so.”

"Then look me in the eye and say it."

Ronald cringed inside. Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place! He sighed, and he met those troubled, narrow eyes. “All right, look…you might be a _little_ abusive with Sutcliff Senpai. You ride all of us, but with him…you get kind of…violent.”

William’s frown deepened.

"Hey, he seems to like it half the time," Ron hastily defended with a shrug. "I’ve never heard him complain, but maybe that’s because he likes you so much."

William looked down at the flask. “I see. Perhaps I could use some of this, after all.”

Ronald watched with concern as the supervisor reached for the item and unscrewed the top. William took a swig of the rum inside, and he grimaced. “What would you suggest I do, Ronald?”

He blinked. “Y-you want _my_ advice?”

"I wouldn’t have asked, if I didn’t."

"Hmm." Ron thought about it, and he thought of the history the two older reapers shared. He boldly hopped up onto William’s desk, and he looked into his eyes as he dangled his legs over the side of it. "Honestly, I think you’re holding something against Grell. I don’t know all the details about you two training together, but it seems to me you’ve got some kind of unresolved issue with him. You know he’s a good reaper."

"When he isn’t going on a murder spree through London," snorted William. He took another pull of the rum, and he waved at him. "Continue."

"Okay, that was a bad lapse of judgment," agreed Ron, concerning the Ripper case. "He snapped under pressure and he took it out on mortals, since he couldn’t take it out on the organization. It’s not uncommon for our kind. You’re the one that told me that, remember? You said if I start feeling overwhelmed or depressed, I should speak to someone in counseling and put in a request for time out. You said that too many reapers try to suck it up and end up cracking or committing suicide."

William nodded, and his eyes seemed far away. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

Ronald sighed. “I think you should take some time off. Maybe not right now, since we have the Undertaker to worry about, but when this whole thing with him is resolved. Maybe we could both take time off together and go to a resort or something…someplace warm.”

William tilted his head back and shut his eyes. “If only that were a foreseeable option, in the near future.”

Ronald considered him quietly, wracking his mind for some way to ease his tension. Finally, with a shrug, he hopped off the desk and he pushed against William’s shoulders, wheeling the chair back a bit.

"What are you—" William started to ask, but then Ronald pushed his thighs apart and got down on his knees between them. His zipper went down a moment later, and the blond looked up at him and gave a mischievous wink. "Oh."

 

* * *

William couldn’t grant the privacy that Grell asked for, but the more he worked on his “assignment”, the more the redhead started to think that might not be such a bad thing. Undertaker was unreasonably charming, even wrapped up like Tutankhamun and unkempt. Grell took to brushing his hair twice a day, once in the morning after breakfast, and again in the evening after dinner. They began to discuss books, poetry and music, and he soon discovered that Undertaker appreciated a lot of the same things that he did. Grell wasn’t that interested in the comedic works of Charlie Chaplain, but he found Undertaker’s enthusiasm for it cute.

In addition to their rather enjoyable chats, Undertaker always found ways to compliment him. Maybe he was as mad as a hatter, but he certainly knew how to make him feel good about himself. He was kind to him; he even seemed protective of him, at times. Strangely enough, that wasn’t usually a turn-on for Grell. He was used to being treated with disdain by the men in his life—at least, the men he had a romantic interest in. He was used to being treated with violence, too. Both Sebby and Will liked to hit him, and because he adored them both so much, Grell was just happy to get some form of attention from them.

But with Undertaker, it was different. Maybe it was just because he was incarcerated and didn’t get any other visitors, but he truly seemed to enjoy spending time with Grell, and he didn’t try to shut him up or accuse him of being overly dramatic when he got himself worked up with romantic poetry.

Grell sternly reminded himself that it was all just a game between them, and Undertaker probably only saw him as a source of amusement. He himself was only spending time with him to try and wear him down, to convince him that it was for the best if he’d just return to the organization and cooperate with the higher authorities.

The problem was, he was coming to like Undertaker far too much for his own good. Grell avoided further kissing exchanges with the prisoner, though he truly wanted nothing more than to spend the day in his lap, lip-locked with him. He did his best to coax him, but each time the subject of signing a contract came up, Undertaker demonstrated that underneath the giggles and smiles, he could be quite stern and adamant.

"No, Grell," he said on the evening of the eight day of his captivity. He tilted his head back to look up at the redhead, who had paused in running the brush through his hair. "Don’t ask me again."

Grell pursed his lips with annoyance. “Don’t you tell me not to ask again, you…you…” He couldn’t think of a decent adjective for what Undertaker was to him at the moment, and he huffed. “They told me how restless you’ve been lately. This isn’t where you should be.”

"I shouldn’t be leashed like a hound either," said the mortician with a cold smile. "And I won’t be. Come what may, I’m done with being a grim reaper."

Grell sighed. They’d had to sedate Undertaker earlier that afternoon, because apparently he threatened one of the guards. When asked _how_ he threatened them, however, they couldn’t give him a straight answer. “He loomed” wasn’t good enough. While Undertaker could surely be intimidating with his lean height, toothy smile and cold eyes…

"Are you still in there, love?"

Grell shook himself out of it and he blushed the moment he met those lazy eyes, gazing up at him with the white fringe of lashes surrounding them. Goodness, they were pretty. He could spend a day just gazing into those eyes. They weren’t cold at all, right now. They were warm…very warm.

Before he knew what he was doing, Grell closed the distance between their lips. It should have been awkward, to kiss him upside down like that, but Grell was beginning to think that kissing was one of Undertaker’s greatest talents. Maybe that was how he seduced mortals to relinquish their souls so easily to him—through kissing.

Grell’s fingers itched to unfasten the bindings on Undertaker’s jacket, but the buckles were padlocked to prevent unauthorized persons from opening them. He reveled in the dizzying sensuality of his companion’s lips and tongue moving against his, and he wondered how in the hell he’d managed to get through the whole week without this.

When their mouths finally parted again, Undertaker was grinning. “Still not signing,” he murmured, his breath tickling Grell’s lips.

That wasn’t at all why Grell had kissed him, but he took it because the truth was too pathetic for him. “I’ll just have to keep wearing you down, then.”

"I’m sure I’ll enjoy the effort, if kisses are going to be part of it."

Grell smirked, but inwardly, he was wishing his heart would stop pounding so hard. “If you’re lucky, I may grace you with more. I would kiss other parts of you too, if it would convince you to change your mind.”

Undertaker’s gaze went flat and unreadable. “You really are determined, aren’t you? I didn’t realize Dispatch was in the whoring business.”

Grell’s pounding heart suddenly felt like led, and his stomach clenched. “W-what?”

Undertaker smiled at him, but it wasn’t his usual bright, cheerful smile. It was a slow, cunning smile that didn’t display teeth, and Grell had to admit that it was a little scary to behold. He spoke in a whisper, for Grell’s ears alone. “How stupid do you think old Undertaker is, hmm? I’ve been around since before humans had the written word, and here you are trying one of the oldest tricks in the book on me. It’s been a pleasant diversion, and I’ve enjoyed our time together, but I think it’s time to make something clear.”

Undertaker suddenly rolled out of his chair and stood before him, looming over him effortlessly—just as he’d probably done to the guards. Now that he was the recipient, Grell had a better appreciation for their choice to medicate him when he did this to them. Undertaker lowered his head to his, and for a moment, Grell thought he was about to kiss him. Instead, he spoke in a low, cold voice.

"No matter how insane I might be, I’m no fool, Mr. Sutcliff. If you want to cheapen yourself this way to serve your masters, you’ll have to do it with someone else. I won’t be part of it."

Grell stood there dumbly with the brush in one hand, stunned by the change in him and unreasonably hurt by his comparison of him to a whore. It hurt even more than Will’s cruelty and Sebastian’s indifference, because he’d actually dared to fantasize that maybe, just maybe, someone might reciprocate his love. Now he knew what an utter joke that notion was, and he hated himself for wanting to cry.

He struggled for a retaliatory response, but the doors opened and several guards came in. “Mr. Sutcliff? Is there a problem?”

Undertaker smiled again, in that chilling way. His eyes flashed dangerously, holding Grell’s. “Well, Mr. Sutcliff?” he said, mocking the guards. “Is there?”

Grell gathered his dignity as best he could, refusing to be intimidated or hurt any more than he’d already been. “No,” he called out. “There is no problem. Now shoo, I still have ten minutes with the prisoner.”

Undertaker’s smile suddenly changed, thawing out and transforming into one of his droll, friendly grins again. The transition was shocking, and Grell stared at him. He’d finally seen his first real glimpse of the madness that everyone else kept going on about. Always possessed of more nerve than common sense, Grell reached out and stroked away the bangs that had again fallen over the taller reaper’s eyes to mask his gaze. The smile reached his eyes, warm and even affectionate.

"I’m not a whore," Grell said, his voice quivering the slightest bit. "And if that’s what you think of me—"

"I don’t."

Grell’s brows furrowed, creating a hedge over his eyes. “Then why in the _hell_ would you mmmph!”

Undertaker kissed him, silencing his complaints and making him weak in the knees. When he’d mouth-fucked him into submission again, he broke the kiss to whisper against his lips.

"I had to be sure your interest was genuine," explained the ancient. "I don’t like to be toyed with, Grell. After an insult like that, you should have stormed out of here and demanded to be removed from my case. You stayed."

Now thoroughly confused, but oddly relieved that Undertaker didn’t mean his cruel words, Grell clenched his fingers around his brush and he reacted by instinct. Undertaker yelped in surprise when he got popped on the head for his troubles.

"Learn that from your supervisor, did you?" muttered the Undertaker, but he snickered. "That’s fine. I probably deserved that one. I’ll remind you that I can’t hit your back or block you if you strike me again, though."

"You infuriating…gigantic…lurker," hissed Grell angrily. "I _should_ walk out of here and demand that Will take me off of this case!”

"Why?" asked Undertaker curiously, tilting his head to one side. His smile gentled, and he waited while Grell thought it over. "I told you I didn’t mean it."

"That isn’t the point," argued Grell.

"Then what is?"

Indeed, what _was_ the point? Grell couldn’t remember. All he knew was that one insult from Undertaker was so much more painful than a dozen from William. “It was rude, that’s the point!”

"Worse than the things dear William says to you?" pressed Undertaker with interest. "Why should my fabricated contempt trouble you more than his outright abuse?"

"I must be going more insane myself, because you’re making too much sense," mumbled Grell sullenly. He didn’t tell him that he’d basically said exactly what was already on his mind.

"Just tell me," coaxed Undertaker. "Nothing to be afraid of, my dear."

Grell bit his lip until he drew blood, but as usual, he didn’t really notice. “It hurt my feelings, all right?”

Undertaker’s expression softened. “Good.”

Grell’s jaw dropped. “ _What_? Why is that good?”

"Because you admitted it out loud," explained Undertaker. He leaned toward Grell and he murmured into his ear, drawing a shiver from him. "Now, if only you could be that honest with Mr. Spears, whenever he hurts you. Not to worry though, little rose; you can always be honest with me."

The velvety lips brushed over Grell’s cheek, and Undertaker stepped away. He looked down at Grell’s right hand with a sigh. “Would you mind lifting your hand up for me, lovely? I’m afraid I can’t take it in my own to do this properly.”

Curious now, Grell complied and he blushed yet again when the taller reaper bowed over it to plant a soft kiss on the top of it. With that done, Undertaker looked up at him, still bowing.

"I’m sorry for hurting your feelings. It was rather necessary, but I didn’t enjoy it."

Grell took his hand in the other hand, and he cradled it against his chest, silently vowing not to wash it for at least a day. “Apology accepted.”

 

* * *

That night, Grell’s dreams were full of fluffy, romantic dreams of picnics and carriage rides with the Undertaker. As the night progressed, the dreams became more vivid and sensual. Grell squirmed restlessly in his big canopy bed, imagining Undertaker’s long, sensitive hands on his body, stroking him, caressing him and loving him in ways that no other man had done before. He could feel his lips against his, could feel the fall of silver hair caressing his skin, tickling it. He could taste him, and he could feel it when he entered him and began to move.

Grell’s squirming became writhing, and he started to call out in his sleep. He broke into a sweat and his back arched. His hands clutched at the bed sheets, his pale thighs clenched and the tent in his long, red satin nightshirt quickly developed a wet spot.

Panting and trembling in the darkness, Grell opened his eyes and stared up at the blurred canopy overhead. He could practically imagine his beautiful, mad coffin dweller hovering over him with a satisfied smile. Grell _never_ had erotic dreams about men, unless his feelings for them ran much deeper than simple attraction. It was then, in the afterglow of his wet dream, that Grell Sutcliff realized the peril he was in.

He was falling in love with the spooky bastard.

 

* * *

-To be continued

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Grell was almost reluctant to return to work the next day. He couldn’t get the vivid, sensual dream out of his head, and every time he thought of it a telling blush spread over his cheeks. He walked around in a daze, greeting coworkers absently as he entered Dispatch headquarters. Alan called out to him as he passed through the main doors in the lobby, and Grell obligingly stopped to allow him to meet up with him.

"Good morning, Grell," greeted the brunet cheerfully.

“‘Morning, Alan.” Grell looked him over as they fell into step together and headed for the elevators. “You seem to have recovered nicely.”

Alan rubbed his right shoulder in memory of the grave marker that had pierced him during the encounter with Undertaker. “Yes, I was back in my office the very next day. That thing he threw at me was made of regular wood, so it didn’t do lasting damage. It hurt like the dickens, though!”

"Well, being impaled is never fun," agreed Grell. He immediately thought of a _different_ sort of impaling, and he flushed. “Most of the time, anyhow.”

Alan gave him a slightly confused look, and they got into one of the elevator lifts together. “Fourth floor, please.”

"Human resources?" Grell pushed the button for him, and then he selected the sixth floor for himself.

Alan nodded. “I’ll be giving a lecture on the importance of keeping out of mortal affairs,” he sighed. “Apparently, I have a good speaking presence.”

Grell smirked. “So you get to train the fledglings. Lucky you. I’m surprised they haven’t drafted me to serve as a cautionary example.”

The brunet smiled and shrugged, leaning back against the wall as the elevator began its ascent. “I think I would rather babysit them than Undertaker. How is that coming along, by the way?”

"It’s difficult to say," answered Grell smoothly. "He isn’t so bad, though. I don’t think he’s nearly as unhinged as everyone thinks."

"Well, I would hope not," sighed Alan. "Not if they’re going to put him back in the field, anyway. Don’t misunderstand me; I support his rehabilitation and he’s a major part of our history. I just don’t think they should rush it."

Grell refrained from talking about the details, knowing that the bit about the Faustian contract was classified information, known only to himself, William and highest management. “They seem to believe he can be managed.”

He nearly said “tamed”, but the word left such a foul taste in his mouth that he feared he would spit if he said it aloud. His revulsion must have shown on his face, because Alan gave him a faintly concerned look.

"Is everything all right?"

Evicting the grimace from his facial expression, Grell nodded. “I had burnt coffee on my way out, today. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

"I’m not a big coffee drinker," assured Alan with a smile, "but I’ll remember to be careful brewing it, the next time I have some."

The elevator came to a stop on his floor, and the doors slid open. “Well, this is me. Maybe I’ll see you around lunchtime, Grell.”

The redhead smiled back. “Perhaps, though it isn’t likely. Whip those brats into shape.”

Alan left him, and Grell felt some relief when no other reapers stepped into the elevator. He wasn’t in a very sociable mood today. He needed to sort out the confusion in his head and most of all, in his heart.

 

* * *

"Sutcliff is still trying to wear him down," reported William to his superior, over the telephone. "I believe he is making progress, but we need time."

He listened to the response, and he frowned. “I understand that, sir, but—”

He was interrupted before he could complete his sentence. He glanced at the redhead seated on the opposite side of his desk, and he turned in his chair and spoke in a low voice, into the receiver.

"Surely, there is another way. If you would just grant us the time to convince him…"

He trailed off, listening. As he watched, Grell got a dreadful, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Yes sir. Thank you sir, I’ll see that it’s done. I will report back with the response. Good day to you."

William hung up the phone with a sigh. Grell watched him uncertainly as he began to pace the room. “I take it the phone call didn’t end well,” he guessed, clasping his hands together in his lap to keep from fidgeting.

William went to the window, and he opened the blinds to look outside. “Our time is up; and so is Undertaker’s.”

Grell stared at him warily. “What exactly does that mean, Will? Surely they haven’t decided to execute him!”

"No," assured the brunet. "The Divine still has a purpose for Undertaker, so executing him is out of the question."

Grell relaxed a bit, but he didn’t cease his defense of the ancient. “But it’s still terrible, whatever punishment they’ve chosen for him? He’s made _one_ mistake in all the ages of service, Will! How could they—”

"Actually, he made several mistakes," corrected the brunet in a stiff, brittle voice. "It just so happens that the two greatest were to abandon his duties as a reaper and to later raise the dead. The latter crime is considered exceptional. He did not just reap souls before their time, as you did. Undertaker violated natural laws, perverted and twisted the lines between life and death. He created soulless abominations that served no purpose but to alleviate his own curiosity of life and death."

"Fine, so he created an army of zombies," Grell sighed. "They were prepared to take him back anyway, so what changed?"

"His case has been more thoroughly reviewed," answered William. He pushed his glasses up with his scythe, and he turned to look at Grell. "During the latter years of his service, Undertaker rebelled quite a bit more than public records show. His crimes ranged from slaughtering an entire religious cult, to impersonating members of divine upper management, to pulling rather extensive pranks on said members. Stop grinning, Sutcliff…these actions are why he can’t be trusted to reintegrate back into the fold of his own volition."  

Grell put his smile away with a sigh. “Why, exactly? That was all so long ago.”

"Yes, but the simple fact of the matter is this: Undertaker is a troublemaker. He went from being the staunchest role model for reapers everywhere to becoming a rebellious killer and prankster. It has been decided that there isn’t an immediate need for him, but he cannot be set free. If he won’t take the contract and serve willingly, he is to be placed in stasis. Once stabilized there, a Divine brand will be applied to him—similar to the Faustian sort in purpose. He will remain in stasis until there is a great enough need for his services, and when that day comes, he will be compelled to answer the call and obey."

Grell stood up slowly, staring at William as if he’d sprouted a second head. “This can’t be happening,” he objected. “Will, there’s no justice in this!”

"Regardless of our personal feelings," sighed the brunet, finally displaying a hint of emotion, "neither of us have a say in the matter. You have this one, last day to convince Undertaker to sign the contract. If you do that, he can at least be spared from stasis and still have some freedom, outside of the tasks laid down by the organization."

"But what good will that do for him now?" demanded Grell, waving his arms expressively. "Either way, he’s still a slave!"

William’s mask shattered completely, and Grell saw the grief in his face before he could turn away to conceal it. He impulsively went to him, still loving him despite the cruelty and disdain he’d always gotten in return for it. He came up behind him and put his hands on the brunet’s shoulders, squeezing them comfortingly.

"Will…what can we do? There _must_ be something.”

"If you have any suggestions, I’m willing to listen," said the supervisor in a strained, thick voice. He turned, and there was a promise of tears glistening in his eyes—something Grell had never seen in him before. William stared at him, shook his head slowly, and then he put his arms around him and drew him close. His breath shuddered softly in his chest, and when Grell returned his embrace, he looked down at him and he lowered his mouth to his.

Grell went absolutely still with shock as William’s lips met his. He’d been dreaming of this moment for so long, and now that it was happening, he didn’t know quite how to react. He closed his eyes and instinctively held him tighter, prepared to surrender himself to the kiss.

Undertaker’s beautiful, silver-lashed eyes came to the forefront of his mind, and Grell found it impossible to fall into the moment. Everything about it felt wrong, and he suffered an unfamiliar feeling of guilt for allowing it to happen. Grell released his companion from his embrace, and he pushed against his chest, firmly but not roughly. William pulled away with a somewhat dazed expression, and Grell shook his head.

"You daft man," he accused woefully. "Why couldn’t you have done that a year ago, or even a month ago? I’m afraid my heart belongs to another, now."

The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted saying them. Grell’s eyes widened in shock over how easily the proclamation came to him, and William looked distinctly uncomfortable. Grell started to say something, to try and revise his announcement, but William spoke before he could push the words out past his frozen lips.

"Grell Sutcliff, rejecting a kiss," he mused.  

"I know," sighed Grell. "What is the world coming to? I never would have thought I would turn down a kiss from you, Will."

"I never thought I would offer one," murmured William. "Honestly, we aren’t the first bit compatible."

"Then why did you kiss me?" Grell stared up at the taller reaper with furrowed brows.

William looked out the window again, as if seeking answers from the azure skyline. “I was caught up in the moment. Even _I_ can suffer momentary lapses of reason.” He looked at him again, his handsome features thoughtful. “I’m involved with someone, too. I suppose I don’t need to ask the identity of the person you claim to hold your heart?”

Grell shrugged. It was his turn to look out the window. “It just came out. I wasn’t even sure of it, until a moment ago. I suppose you’ll want to lecture me for ‘personalizing’ my encounters with him.”

William lowered his gaze. “No. Actually, I understand why you are drawn to him, and I find it unsurprising that he’s drawn to you, as well. This only serves to complicate things more, though. You can’t allow your feelings for him cloud your judgment, Grell.”

He’d just been about to ask William who he was involved with, but his last cryptic statement served as a harsh reminder of the situation. “Will, can you really allow this to happen to him?”

The brunet’s eyes were drawn to the skyline outside the window again. “If I could change anything, I would. My hands are tied, however. Provided Undertaker doesn’t change his mind or break free of the holding facility before tomorrow morning, he will be prepared for transport to stasis and locked away indefinitely. We may never see him awaken again, in our lifetime. He could very well remain there until the End Days.”

While Grell bit his lip and struggled with outrage, William went on. “I believe this decision was made because Senior Management questions whether we can detain him indefinitely. There are security exploits in the spirit scanners and inhibitors that could allow him to escape from his cell before anyone knows he’s gone, in fact.”

Grell lifted his gaze from the floor and stared at him. William kept looking out the window as he spoke, his features again an unreadable mask. “Each night at precisely eleven o’clock, the inhibitors and scanners in the lockup ward reset. This is necessary, in order to ensure accuracy. Unfortunately, the process takes ten minutes to complete. During that time, dimensional portals can be created within the ward, without setting off the alarms. Most staff members don’t know about this exploit, of course, but guard patrols are doubled until quarter past the hour each night, just in case.”

William turned his head to look at him again, his gaze level on him from behind his sharp, black glasses. “It’s almost a pity that Undertaker doesn’t know about this flaw. Though I would be forced to hunt him down again if he escaped, I think a part of me would be relieved.”

Grell stared at him suspiciously. William was immaculate about upholding the rules, but it was obvious that this business with Undertaker was tearing him apart. “I would share your relief, believe me.”

The tiniest, bare hint of a smirk curved William’s lips. “Try your best to convince him to sign the contract, with the time you have left. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you not to mention the security flaw to him.”

Grell’s heart came back to life in his breast again, pounding fiercely with the exciting realization that in his covert way, Will had just given Undertaker a chance to escape. He very nearly went to him to kiss him in gratitude, but the brunet’s rigid posture made him rethink that course of action. Right now, an embrace might shatter William to pieces. He was going against his own principles and putting himself at risk, by giving Grell this information.

"You have duties to attend," reminded William in a carefully toneless voice. "As do I."

Grell nodded, his mouth stretching into a shark’s grin. “Absolutely, my cold prince…absolutely.”

 

* * *

"You’ve bitten your lip again recently."

Grell looked up from the porridge he was preparing to feed to Undertaker, and he self-consciously ran his tongue over his bottom lip. He had to wonder how Undertaker could even see it from his vantage point, with no glasses to aid his vision and all that hair hanging over his eyes.

"How can you tell, from the other side of the table?" Grell sprinkled some salt into the bowl of porridge and stirred it.

Undertaker made a shrugging gesture, his motions hampered as usual by the straight jacket they made him wear for these visits. “I can smell it.”

Grell smirked, glancing up from his task. “Like a vampire?”

Undertaker chuckled softly. “Like a man familiar enough with the scent of blood to pick up on it quickly. I don’t need to see it to know your lips are stained red with your blood, lovely. I’ll be happy to nurse it for you, if you’d like.”

Knowing he was talking about kissing the blood away, Grell was sorely tempted. He couldn’t allow himself to get too distracted, though. Less than twenty-four hours from now, they would come for this silver legend…this god…and they would steal his dignity from him forever. He had to at least _try_ to formulate some sort of plan. That was what a sane person would do, wasn’t it?

~Bassy and his brat-Earl always manage to do these last-minute things without planning for them. Pity I can’t enlist their help—as if they would bother.~

Given Undertaker’s history with them, they might actually help if he asked nicely, but Grell would have to find some way to sneak them into the realm to do so. He wasn’t worried about the ramifications of bringing a demon into Shinigami territory, though. He’d face much harsher punishment if he got caught trying to help Undertaker escape.

"I see."

Grell looked up from the porridge he was stirring, yanked out of his thoughts by Undertaker’s soft comment. “Hmm?”

"I suppose I deserve the silent treatment." Undertaker’s mouth pulled into an uncommon little frown. "I wasn’t exactly kind to you, yesterday."

Grell had never seen a frown on those lips before. Not even when Undertaker challenged the way William treated him did he frown. Seeing him looking genuinely unhappy like that tugged at his heartstrings, and any doubts Grell might have still harbored concerning his feelings were laid to rest at the sight of it. Still, Undertaker _had_ hurt his feelings terribly, with his strange little test.

"No, you weren’t," agreed the redhead. "And your charming attempt to make up for it wasn’t quite enough. I suppose I’ll get over it, in time."

The ancient practically pouted, then. “I would make it up to you, if my hands were free.”

Grell picked up the bowl and circled around the table with a suspiciously raised brow. “Nice try…although I find myself madly intrigued by the thought of what you would _do_ with those hands to make up for it.”

Undertaker’s mouth quirked at one corner, nearly breaking his dramatic frown. “Do you? Perhaps you can accuse me of whoring myself to get on your good side, now.”

"Maybe I should," agreed Grell. He took his customary seat in the older reaper’s lap, and he impulsively rubbed the tip of his nose against Undertaker’s. "But that would make me no better than you— _ooh!_ ”

Grell pulled away with a surprised yelp when Undertaker nipped at his nose without warning. He nearly fell off of his lap, and he had to grab him around the neck to keep his seat. He huffed as the mortician began to laugh heartily at him.

"Do that again, and I’ll bite you back!" Grell displayed his significantly sharper teeth in a Cheshire grin for him, reminding Undertaker that he could do a lot more damage, even with a playful bite.

"Dear me, we can’t have that, can we?" Undertaker’s laughter quieted, but his grin remained. He shook his bangs back from his eyes and he winked at Grell playfully. "Then again, I might enjoy a bite from you."

"I would be happy to demonstrate and find out, but you might accuse me of being a whore again." Despite his claim to forgive the ancient yesterday, Grell couldn’t help but cling to a bit of hurt from it.

Undertaker sighed, sobering at last. “I swear on my scythe, Grell Sutcliff, I shall never utter such an accusation to you again.”

Grell smiled in a warmer fashion at him, resisting a sigh of infatuation. People could say what they liked about Undertaker, but the man had a romantic side to him that made his poor little heart all aflutter.  

Undertaker’s next words made coldness settle around Grell’s pounding heart, freezing it up and chilling him inside. “I don’t want my remaining time flavored with your resentment. Honestly, if it weren’t for your company in here, I might have snapped by now.”

Grell stared at him, wanting to tell him of the plans formulating in his mind, but afraid he might foil them if he gave them away. There was also the problem of them being monitored. Subtlety wasn’t his strong point. He didn’t trust himself to try and speak in code, without giving something away to the wrong person.

_~Best to stay silent, then.~_

He began to feed the prisoner, trying to keep his mood and tone light but evidently failing on some level. Undertaker began to watch him with curious interest as the minutes ticked by, and by the time they finished breakfast, he asked about it.

"Something on your mind, my dear?"

Grell shrugged and fabricated an answer. “I’ve been thinking of what might happen to you, if you refuse to cooperate. Sometimes, I…”

He trailed off and swallowed, his emotions rising to the surface to choke him.

"What?" murmured Undertaker. He smiled encouragingly. "Remember what I said yesterday? You can always be honest with me."

"I remember," sighed Grell, hating himself for being such a drama queen. Why, oh why did his passion always have to get in the way? He envied Will and Sebastian in their stoicism. He wished he could just shut off his feelings like a switch, the way they so often managed to. Of course as a demon, it was quite possible that Sebastian was naturally immune to feelings of sentiment.

"Then what’s troubling you?"

Grell looked into those mesmerizing eyes, so close to his own. “Sometimes I can hardly bare it,” he confessed softly. “I don’t want to see you shut away forever. Somewhere along the line, you went from being a dusty old creeper to being—”

Undertaker burst into laughter before Grell could finish—and that was probably a blessing, considering he’d just been about to tell him he was a man he could love completely.

“ _'Dusty old creeper,'_ " repeated the Undertaker in delight, practically howling with laughter. "Oh, my sides…merciful death, but you come up with the most adorably hilarious anecdotes, Mr. Sutcliff! If I could slap my knee in appreciation, I would."

Grell waited for him to settle down, familiar enough with Undertaker’s moments of hilarity to know that these things needed to run their course. He grinned and giggled along with him in spite of himself, finding his smile and open, unrestrained laughter infectious. When the laughter finally died down to quiet chuckles, Undertaker gave him an apologetic look through tear-blurred eyes.

"Ah, I beg your pardon," he huffed. "My, my, that was a good laugh. Would you be a dear and wipe my eyes for me?"

Grell retrieved his handkerchief from his vest pocket. “Of course.”

_~You gloriously handsome, silver devil. I could drown in those eyes of yours.~_

He kept these thoughts to himself as he gently wiped the tears of mirth from his companion’s eyes. Grell’s smile faded as he put the handkerchief away. “I think I would miss you, if you went away.”

Undertaker’s smile softened, and a remarkable clarity sparkled in his gaze. He put all joking aside, and he spoke in a low, kind voice. “Then I’ve done something right, I think. Grell, listen to me. Are you listening?”

Grell huffed with annoyance. “Do you see me plugging my ears, sir?”

Undertaker chuckled softly. “Right, then. We’re all slaves to fate, in some way or another. I can see my end approaching, and I have no regrets.”

Undertaker paused, his gaze sweeping over the lithe redhead snuggled in his lap. “Well, maybe one or two regrets, where you’re concerned. The point is, Shinigami might belong to the higher powers, but we have sentience. We have individual thought, and I will remain a mortician until they put an end to this body I wear. I’ve been around for a long, long, _long_ time, so perhaps it’s time for me to check out. If these are going to be my last days, then I’m grateful you were here to make them pleasant. You’ve made this ‘dusty old creeper’ actually enjoy being imprisoned.”

Grell’s throat closed up, and he blinked rapidly. “Oh…you…my heart…”

He had to look away as he put his hand over his chest, and he swallowed to steady his voice before speaking again. “I don’t think anyone has ever said anything so romantic to me…ever. Not even in my imagination, and I have quite the _active_ imagination!”

He bit his lip and looked back at Undertaker to find him smiling happily at him. “You shouldn’t be so chipper. This situation is tragic!”

Undertaker shook his head. “I don’t think so. I got to meet a pretty lady and spend time with her, before I go…one with a pulse, no less! She’s a lovely lady in red that doesn’t shy away from me, even when I insult her. That makes me happy.”

His usage of gender appropriate terms for how Grell felt on the inside only served to endear Undertaker further to him. He didn’t hate or resent his male body—he quite liked the way he was put together, in fact. Still, Grell had always felt like his spirit was feminine, not masculine. Sebastian sometimes humored him when he wanted to get something out of him, but Undertaker was the first person he’d ever met that seemed to completely embrace the woman in Grell.

He bit down harder on his lip, making blood well, and Undertaker shook his head. “Here now, you’ll sever it, if you keep going. Let Ol’ Undertaker kiss it better.”

Because his heart had now thoroughly taken over his common sense, Grell lowered his lips to Undertaker to allow it. The gentle swipe of the ancient’s tongue made the fresh cuts sting and throb, but it was soothing, as well. Undertaker kissed the abused lip tenderly between licks, and Grell absently kneaded his shoulder like a content cat.

He managed to retain enough wit to offer a whispered warning to Undertaker, between kisses. “I’m going to have a surprise for you tonight.”

"Oh?" Undertaker kissed him softly again. "Telling me about it defeats the purpose, don’t you think?" His mouth smiled against Grell’s.

"Not if I don’t tell you what it is," insisted Grell.

"So you’re basically just teasing me," reasoned Undertaker. "Naughty kitten."

A smile found its way on Grell’s lips, despite the butterflies in his stomach. “Well, I’ve left off trying to convince you to wear the glasses again, so this is all I have left to give you.”

"Now I’m immensely curious," sighed Undertaker.

The bell rang, and Grell got out of his lap with a sigh. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he said. His lip had healed enough for him to pucker, so he blew Undertaker a kiss and walked backwards to the door as it opened. “I’ll see you at lunchtime, handsome.”

 

* * *

"You’ve got to admit," Ronald said as he watched Grell leave the cell visible through the observation window, "they _do_ make kind of a cute couple.”

Standing beside him, William huffed softly. He finished his Miso soup, and he set the cup aside on the tray. “If by that you mean their lunacy compliments one another, I agree.”

"Aw, don’t be that way," urged Ron with a chuckle. "You’re not jealous, are you?"

William glanced at him. “I have never harbored attraction for Undertaker, and Grell has always been too wild for my taste.”

"So is that a ‘no’ or a ‘yes’?" Ronald scratched his feathered head. "Help me out."

"No." William turned to face him in full, holding his gaze. "I’m not jealous. If anything, I think they deserve each other."

Ronald watched him with a puzzled look. “I know this is a stupid question with everything that’s going on, but are you feeling okay? I mean, Undertaker is going to be—”

"Processed for future service," interrupted William, using the more clinical term for what they were going to have to do to him. "You don’t need to remind me."

Ronald sighed. “Anything I can do?”

William almost smiled at him, stricken with fond feelings. “You can continue to do your job to the best of your ability—and you can practice being on time more often. That will lighten the work load I face, somewhat.”

"Gotcha."

Ronald edged closer to him and he slipped an arm around his waist. Within the cell below, they were removing Undertaker’s straightjacket to allow him a bit of exercise, now that Grell was gone. Ronald Gave William’s bottom a pat, and he just grinned when the taller Shinigami raised a dark brow at him. “Anything… _else_ I can do to take your mind off things?”

William’s expression relaxed the faintest bit. He allowed himself a brief moment of affection for the perky young reaper, nuzzling his hair before kissing him on the earlobe. “No, but your efforts are appreciated, nonetheless.”

William looked into the room again, and his eyes darkened. “I just hope Sutcliff is brighter than I give him credit for.”

Ronald again looked at him in bemusement, but William’s thoughts were fixated on what the night could bring, if Grell did indeed get the hint and chose to act upon it. He was glad of his choice not to tell Ronald about his little slip that morning, just yet. He didn’t want him to have any reason to resent his old instructor, if they found themselves on opposite sides of the scythe with Grell.

 

* * *

As the day wore on, the butterflies in Grell’s stomach soon became bats, and they weren’t just fluttering; they were _swarming_. He couldn’t eat more than a few bites of his sandwich at lunchtime, and he started to feel nauseous before dinner. He finished off some paperwork and he went to the bathroom to freshen up before his last official visit of the day. While he was washing his hands, he couldn’t stop thinking of what would happen to Undertaker, if he failed to act. He’d nearly tried to tell him of the security exploit at lunch, figuring that he could whisper the information into his ear without being overheard.

How was Undertaker supposed to know what time it was, though? He’d already told Grell that he told time during the day by his visits, and afterwards he had no idea what hour it was again until morning. It wasn’t like his cell was equipped with a clock, and the only outside things they allowed Undertaker to have in his cell were books and a glow lamp, for reading at night. Everything else was “too dangerous” in his hands.

Grell kept scrubbing his hands in the sink, staring blankly at the tiled bathroom wall as he thought it over. What if he couldn’t stop it from happening? They said people in stasis couldn’t see or hear anything happening around them, nor did they dream. The process was alchemical in nature and designed specifically for Shinigami, freezing all of their mental processes in one moment until such time as they could be safely awakened again. There were reapers in stasis now, but they were all there because of severe injuries on the job.  The body’s regenerative processes continued while they were in stasis, allowing injuries the chance to heal without straining the limits of the patient’s physiological systems.

"What if they’re wrong?" Grell muttered without meaning to. Thankfully, he was the only one in the bathroom—not that most of his coworkers would have the nerve to question him if they found him talking to himself.

What if Undertaker _could_ see, think and feel while trapped in stasis? He wasn’t like most other reapers, and he wouldn’t be put under for medical purposes. Who would make him smile? Who would brush his hair? Who would entertain him? It would be the ultimate form of cruelty, to trap him in a world without laughter, without comfort, without—

Grell abruptly turned away from the sink and dove for the nearest toilet door. He flung it open with a bang and went to his knees before the porcelain bowl, hastily grabbing a handful of his long hair and holding it out of the way. The meager contents of food and drink he’d managed to consume earlier made an abrupt, rude encore as his stomach heaved.  

Death was a far better fate for Undertaker than indefinite boredom. While he emptied his stomach, Grell’s resolve hardened. He would succeed, or he would kill Undertaker himself in order to spare him such a dreadful fate.

 

* * *

-To be continued    

  
 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Undertaker knew that something was troubling his flamboyant visitor, but Grell avoided talking about it with tact he never would have suspected him capable of using. He knew for certain that something was dreadfully wrong when Sutcliff came for his evening visit and dinner. Grell was far too pale; and it wasn’t the peach-ivory sort of pale that complimented his hair and eyes. This was a sickly pallor, with grayish undertones that hinted at illness or blood loss.

He again asked him if anything was wrong, and despite his poor vision, he noticed the sad, nervous quality of the smile he gave him as he denied it. Undertaker found it far from reassuring. He didn’t press him, knowing that he was already a wound up chap to begin with. It was difficult to keep his questions silent, though. Grell’s eyes seemed to be saying goodbye to him as they gazed into his while he fed him, and Undertaker finally drew his own conclusions.

They were going to execute him, after all. The warning from the fates wasn’t his imagination. He’d never heard of any other Shinigami predicting their own death before, but there was a first time for everything. He wondered what the ladies in Personnel would say, if he could ask them whether his name was on the latest death lists. It wasn’t a clear-cut message, yet. His predictions were usually more accurate than this, and only a rare few male Shinigami had the gift of Death Sight. Grell’s behavior confirmed his suspicion more than his own senses did.

"And where is this surprise you’ve hinted at?" Undertaker asked after swallowing the last bite of his dinner.

Grell considered him, and he cast a covert glance around. Undertaker kept his expression blandly interested, though his curiosity increased with every ticking second. Grell leaned over to speak into his ear, his voice a low, soft murmur.

"I’ll come tonight," he informed, "but don’t give away what I’ve said to you. Laugh, as if I’ve told you a good joke."

Beneath the shade of his bangs, Undertaker’s brows went up with confusion. He didn’t question him, however, and he had a talent for giving himself a giggle whenever he couldn’t find any outside stimulation. He pictured William T. Spears in a ballet tutu, and the laughter immediately bubbled on his lips. He felt Grell’s smile against his ear, and then he felt him teasingly tug one of the hoops piercing it with his teeth, before kissing the outer curve to give him a delightful shiver.

"Well done," approved Grell in a whisper.

He pulled away from him with a little sigh, and he combed his fingers through his hair in the manner of a lover. “Well, you can’t blame a lady for trying. I wish you all the best of luck, Undertaker.”

Still unsure of why he was laughing and what Grell was pretending to have said to him, Undertaker sobered a bit as the younger reaper got off of his lap. He sighed, wishing he could keep him there like that for the rest of the night. He simply adored the way Grell fit against him.

"So that’s it for the day, then?"

Grell nodded, biting his lip in his usual display of quiet angst. “Yes. Try to get as much rest as you can, Undertaker. I…” He stopped and shook his head. “Good evening.”

Undertaker watched him go, measuring the tension in his lithe form as Grell walked away with brisk, hurried steps. He got the uncomfortable suspicion that the redhead was trying not to break down and cry, and that bothered him more than the sense of impending doom he felt.

 

* * *

Grell had to exile himself to the nearest men’s room for a little while, after his evening visit. Once he made sure there was nobody else present, he claimed one of the enclosed toilets and he dropped the seat down to sit on top of it.

_~Stop being such a drama queen. You can do this, Grell.~_

But there was that nagging voice in the back of his mind, asking what he would happen if he _couldn’t_. Grell had broken some of the major rules set down upon Shinigami, and he had killed someone he admired, believing he was putting her out of her misery. If he could do all that, then the least he could do was try to help Undertaker escape. If he failed, he would give him a clean death.

But could he really end him, that way? Grell had always believed he could reap his Shinigami companions without question, if it was required. Now that he was faced with the possibility of doing that to someone he was now positive he was in love with, he wasn’t so sure.

"I have to," he mumbled to himself, willing his frantic nerves to settle. "If it’s the only way I can save him, I _have_ to.”

Saying it aloud didn’t help strengthen his resolve, however. He decided to take one thing at a time. If he kept agonizing over the possibility of having to reap Undertaker, he’d never be able to focus on trying to rescue him, first.

"Worry about it when it happens, Grell," he advised himself. "Put your mind to getting him out of this place, first."

 

* * *

It certainly didn’t serve to encourage him when they bound him in his straight jacket that night before bed. He found it even less heartening when the bed restraints were applied as well. The one time they’d restrained him to the bed since his incarceration was when he scared the dickens out of one of the guards, simply by looking at him and telling him he had mayo on his lip. Evidently, they thought he was going to make trouble over something. Undertaker couldn’t help but wonder what the morning would bring, but they gave him a light sedative to help him sleep, and he soon drifted off after lights-out.

His dreams were odd, but entertaining. In the first one, was living on a farm somewhere in the rolling hills of England, and by his side was Grell Sutcliff. They cuddled up together in a big rocking chair by the fireplace at night, reading a book together. A black cat lay curled up by the hearth, and a gramophone sat in the corner of the room, playing Bach. Undertaker stroked the glorious mane of Grell’s hair while reading to him, and Grell planted little kisses on his cheek and jaw while he listened.

The second dream was more vivid, and Grell wasn’t in it. Undertaker was back at the Phantomhive manor, and Claudia Phantomhive approached him in the hallway, her ghostly gaze shrewd upon him. In her spirit form, she was the young woman he’d met back in the day when he came to collect her father’s cinematic record.    

"It looks as though you’ve managed to get yourself in another bind, Undertaker. Why doesn’t that surprise me?"

Undertaker grinned and bowed to her, before taking her pale, phantom hand in one of his and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “I’ve stayed out of trouble for too long, my dear. I suppose I was due for another dose of it. I can’t be expected to behave forever, you know.”

She clucked her tongue, and she tucked a dark, spiral curl back into place when it fell free of the twist she’d bound it up into. “Like an unruly boy. I should box your ears.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t do you much good, Madame. I’ve been this way for ages, and I can’t see myself growing out of it anytime soon.”

"Hmph. Men. Well, I’ve come to give you fair warning."

"Concerning?" Undertaker released her hand and straightened up. He was dressed in his flowing black uniform from back in his reaping days, and he could see everything quite clearly due to the silver glasses he wore.

"He may betray you," she explained. "That odd man with the blood red hair. He wants to help you, but he can’t be trusted completely."

Undertaker frowned. “In what way do you believe Grell will betray me, Milady?”

"He is prepared to kill you, of course." Her eyes were admonishing on him, as if to say he should have known better. "What else could I mean?"

Undertaker chuckled, not particularly alarmed. “Ah, yes. You misunderstand, though. If Grell Sutcliff does indeed try to kill me, it won’t be a betrayal. He will do it to set me free.”

She made a delicate, dismissive gesture with the grace of a noble born woman. “I’ll never understand your strange way of thinking. So be it, Undertaker. I personally wouldn’t turn my back on anyone that might kill me at a moment’s notice, but your kind has such a strange way of viewing life and death. I honestly don’t know if you’ll live to see another sunset.”

"Strange to you," corrected Undertaker lightly. "No need to worry, though. If I do indeed perish tomorrow or the next day, it’s just part of the cycle. Even my kind aren’t immune from it."

"And here I am, trying to save the life of Death, himself." She smirked with dry humor. "I never would have imagined such a thing."

"That’s because you’re fond of me," he teased, smiling at her. "Admit it; you like old Undertaker."

"Don’t you get cheeky with me," she warned, grabbing hold of his left earlobe and giving it a firm pinch and a tug. He was forced to bend over a little, wincing in spite of himself. "Just because Death has the face of an angel doesn’t mean I’ll fall for his charms, remember?"

"Indeed I do," conceded Undertaker, holding his gloved hands out in surrender. "Mind the ear jewelry, love."

She released his earlobe, leaving his piercings intact. “Good. Prepare yourself then. Your time is running short and oddly enough, I’m not in a rush to meet you again in the afterlife.”

"That’s a shame. You and I never got our dance."

"I think you’d rather dance with someone else," she announced candidly. "Just remember what I said. Not that I think the likes of you would bother listening to good advice."

"You know me too well, Milady." Undertaker snickered and bowed to her. "This has been a delightful little visit. I think your grandson was quite taken with you, when I showed him the clips I saved from your records."

She smiled, her pretty features—so much like a female version of Ciel’s—softening a bit. “You shouldn’t have done that, you know. Showing mortals what they weren’t meant to see can be dangerous business.”

He nodded. Humans required direct aid to actually see cinematic records, unless they were dying themselves. “That boy has already passed the threshold, on more than one occasion. He lives with one foot in and one foot out of the grave.”

"Just see to it that you don’t threaten my grandson again," she warned, "or I’ll have your balls—reaper or not."

Undertaker grimaced reflexively. Castration was a universal male fear, regardless of race, color, creed or mortality. “Of course, Madame. I only meant to save him while there was still a chance to free his soul, but I faltered. The only one I would truly reap now if given the chance would be his demon butler, but Ciel has made his choice.”

She didn’t look a bit happy with that. “I would like to meet my grandchild in the afterlife when it’s his time. I don’t want his soul trapped in the belly of a demon for all eternity.”

Undertaker smiled at her. “Nothing lasts forever, my dear; not even demons. Even if Sebastian Michaelis takes the little lord’s soul, one day or another he’ll meet his end, and Ciel will be free to move on to the afterlife.”

He didn’t mention to her that given Ciel’s track record, Heaven might not be his destination even if he broke free of his contract with the demon. Ciel didn’t care what condition his soul would be in, by the time he achieved his goal. Perhaps he thought it would only be fit for consumption by a demon.

"I look forward to the day I get to hold him in my arms again," said Claudia, "even if he won’t be the tiny baby I once cradled."

He nodded in understanding. “I would like to see that happen for you.” He took her hand and kissed it again. “Until we meet again, my dear Claudia.”

"Until then," she agreed, "you grinning lunatic."

He chortled with delight, and she faded away like smoke.

 

* * *

"Undertaker, wake up."

He muttered sleepily, shaken out of his dream by insistent hands. “Wha—?”

He looked up groggily to see a familiar-shaped pair of long-lashed, Shinigami eyes peering down at him from behind a pair of red-framed lenses. The chains attached to the glasses dangled forward, and a few fragrant strands of crimson hair tickled Undertaker’s face.

"Hullo there, love," mumbled the ancient, groggy with medication and convinced he must still be dreaming. He tried to reach out for him, but he couldn’t move his arms.

_~Oh, right. They’ve got me bound up tighter than a Pharaoh on his funeral day.~_

It was still quite dark, and the only reason Undertaker could make out the features of the reaper hovering over him was because Shinigami—though cursedly nearsighted—were endowed with night vision comparable to felines.

"I’m afraid I’m not going to be much for…entertaining." He yawned at the last part of the sentence, slowly coming out of his stupor. The drugs they had given him weren’t strong enough to keep him that heavily disoriented for long, and he frowned with confusion when Grell began to unbuckle the restraints holding him to the bed. A reason for his unexpected, late night visit sprang to mind, and Undertaker perked up a bit. Inside a Shinigami prison facility wasn’t exactly where he would have chosen to bed Grell, but given the circumstances, he decided not to turn down the offer.

"Am I about to get a conjugal?" he asked hopefully. "Was that your ‘surprise’?"

Grell glanced at him, his sharp teeth flashing in brief smile of amusement. “I would love to present you with a conjugal, my sweet, but I’m here on another matter, tonight. Can you stand?”

Grell helped him into a sitting position and gave him a moment to gather his bearings. His arms were still tightly pinned to his chest, as the straightjacket had separate, locked fastenings. “I think so. Be a dear and help me to my feet.”

Grell did as he asked, his shorter, slimmer form supporting Undertaker’s as the ancient stood up. “How is that?”

Undertaker shook his head rapidly to clear it, mussing his bangs in the process. “I believe I can stand on my own now, lovely.” He looked at Grell as the redhead stepped away, noting the way his gaze lingered on his restraint gear as if assessing the strength of it. Claudia’s warning came back to him in a rush.

"If you aren’t here to take advantage of me, then what did you come for?" He smiled at Grell, unafraid of the stirring of premonition in the back of his mind. His body instinctively wanted to defend him. He might even be able to break out of his restraints if he truly put his all into it, but he had no desire to attack this reaper. He would let him put an end to him, if that was his purpose.

Grell manifested his chainsaw, his luminescent, green-gold eyes still scanning Undertaker’s lean form. Undertaker decided to make it easier on him. He’d told Grell that he would prefer death over compulsory servitude, after all. He didn’t falter. He didn’t bargain for his life, as he could have. He didn’t give in and ask to sign the contract. Instead, he knelt before the thoughtful younger reaper, and he bowed his head, baring the back of his neck.

"I’m sure you’ll make it quick and clean."

Undertaker shut his eyes, and he wondered what side of the afterlife he might end up on. He didn’t hear the roar of the chainsaw, and he didn’t feel the pain of it cutting into his neck. Instead, he heard Grell Sutcliff utter a confusing question.

"Just what in the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

Undertaker looked up at him, but Grell’s features were a complete blur from this vantage point. All he could make out was the shape of his face, his hair and the glow of his eyes. “I think—therefore I am—making it easier for you. You’ll have to forgive me, this is the first time I’ve ever been executed. If you had another position in mind—”

Grell banished his scythe. “Oh, no…no, no, no! You…tsk, that wasn’t it at all!”

He knelt before the ancient, and he brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I’m not here for that. I won’t reap you unless I know there’s no other choice, understand? I’m here to free you, before it’s too late.”

Undertaker frowned at him. Hearing that he wasn’t to die just yet was oddly relieving, but he knew very well the price that Sutcliff would pay for this, if he got caught. “I can’t allow you to do that.”

"Did I say you had a choice?" The crimson reaper grinned at him, flashing his teeth again. He immediately sobered upon examination of Undertaker’s restraints, though. "There _is_ still the problem of this bothersome contraption they’ve got you in, though. My chainsaw isn’t designed for such delicate—”

"Grell, let it go."

The younger reaper stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Undertaker smiled. “I’m prepared to die, and I won’t have you suffering for my actions. Thank you, though, for caring enough to try.”

Grell’s expression darkened. “You thought I came to kill you. What sort of reaction do you think that would have provoked from the organization, if it were true?”

Undertaker shrugged as best he could. “You certainly would have faced a demotion and some suspension, but helping me to escape will mark you as a fugitive. I don’t know how you managed to sneak in here, but—”

"There’s a ten minute window," interrupted Grell urgently, "and we’ve just wasted five of them yammering on about it. I can create a portal and get us out of here before the scanners reset, so—"

"I already _told_ you,” interjected the Undertaker once more. “I won’t let you bugger up your career for this. Now go, before your window shuts and you get caught. It’s very noble of you to try and save my life, and I shall carry that in my heart to my grave.”

"You don’t understand," Grell argued in a hiss. "They don’t plan to _kill_ you at all! In the morning, they’re going to take you to be sealed in stasis with a Divine brand! The next time you wake up, you’ll be a _slave_.”

Undertaker stared at him. The very thought of being frozen in time, unable to laugh or practice his craft, was terrifying enough. The thought of waking up with his free will severely compromised was a thing straight out of nightmares. There wasn’t much that the ancient reaper feared, but Grell’s admission of the fate they intended for him scared him to the marrow of his bones. He almost would have suspected a trick, if he hadn’t been sensing the desperation from Shinigami authorities. Something was going on behind the scenes that Grell and his companions hadn’t been told about…something big. It was the only reason Undertaker could fathom for such harsh, drastic actions.

"Bugger that," he said decisively. "Get me out of this thing!"

 

* * *

The tiny scissors that William gave him to replace his chainsaw when he confiscated his death scythe served their purpose, after all. Grell had chosen to hang onto them just in case, given his penchant for getting into trouble. He was never more thankful for that, because though they were embarrassingly puny, they were still mini scythes and they cut right through the straps binding Undertaker’s arms to his chest. The minute his arms were freed, Grell spared no time making a portal to get them out of the facility, before the scanners restarted.

The problem was that he could only teleport them so far. Making a gateway to the mortal world would require more time and concentration, and Grell was sadly short of the former. They stepped out of his portal into an alley, several blocks away from Shinigami Headquarters.

He’d never felt so excited, so alive, and so terrified, all at once. This was even better than fighting Sebby. “Your scythe,” gasped Grell, breathless with the adrenaline rush. “It’s still in the building.”

He looked over at his companion, standing in the shadows behind him. “I…doubt we can collect it now, without getting caught.”

"Not to worry, love," came the calm, easy response.

Undertaker had straightened to his full height again, and to Grell’s surprise and confusion, he was removing his clothing. The redhead couldn’t help but stare when Undertaker’s pale, toned chest and arms were exposed as the straightjacket fell to the street. The scar etching its way diagonally down his smooth, hairless chest and the second one beneath it only served to make him more exotic and beautiful.

"Not that I don’t appreciate the sight of a gorgeous man’s body, because I do," Grell said in a hushed voice, "but why are you stripping?"

Undertaker didn’t answer him right away. Perhaps he intended to stun the authorities with his nudity. Grell certainly had trouble gathering his thoughts at the mere sight of him, and the long, black nails were now flicking open the buckles holding the pants up. Grell’s eyes watered with the effort not to stare at the thin little trail of silver hairs that started under the older Shinigami’s navel, leading to the treasure below.

Now blushing furiously, Grell looked away and blinked. The sound of the alarm bells going off at Headquarters succeeded in drawing his attention away from his companion’s increasingly nude state. He winced when he saw Shinigami stopping in their tracks in their comings and goings to listen, and he knew word would be sent out for all officers to be on the lookout.

"Undertaker, we really don’t have time for—"

Grell turned around to address his companion, only to have the words lodge in his throat. For one brief, glorious moment, he got the Full Monty. He gulped and his eyes followed the long muscles of the pale, exposed thighs and the scars striping them, and he saw a brief glimpse of Undertaker’s exposed groin and the V of his hips, before clothing somehow materialized on him.

 

* * *

"Uh…Lawrence?"

"What?" The vault guard looked up from the book he was reading when his companion nudged him. He blinked when he saw that one of the confiscated scythes was fading from existence on its place in the rack.

"What in Death?" He straightened up, and his companion rushed to the weapon’s rack with the intention to try and grab the legendary scythe.

Sadly for him, he vanished with it.

 

* * *

Grell pinched the bridge of his nose—just in case—as the tall leather boots, buckles, black pants and long, button-up shirt covered his companion’s nudity. The end result of the man fully dressed in his customary “battle clothing” was just as enthralling as his nudity, and Grell had to resist a swoon.  His nose wasn’t bleeding yet, but oh, that could change so very soon.   

"Oh…my."

Even more shocking than the sudden appearance of his clothing was the materialization of his scythe. Grell blinked in shock as the crescent blade glinted in the moonlight. _No_ reaper should have been able to access his death scythe, once it was locked in the secure storage. Nevertheless, the mighty weapon took form in Undertaker’s hand.

And attached to it was a bewildered looking young man from Dispatch security.

He had nondescript, collar-length brown hair, and his hands were wrapped around the middle of the shaft. He stared up at Undertaker with wide eyes, and Grell could have sworn his pants darkened around the crotch with a tell-tale stain. He released the shaft of the weapon and he stumbled away, staring up at the legendary reaper.

"I…y-you…Sir!"

"You poor sap," Undertaker sighed, and then he introduced the unfortunate officer’s face to the hard sole of his boot. Now sporting the imprint of the footwear on his face, the Dispatch officer fell to the ground, unconscious.

While Grell stared, Undertaker faced him with a smile. His silver hair blew across his face, and the scar twisting down from his left temple to his right jaw tightened with his expression.

"I owe you so much, Grell Sutcliff. You realize there’s no turning back from this course you’ve chosen, don’t you?"

Grell swallowed. Undertaker looked like a god to him right now, with the light of the full moon shining down on him from above the alley, and that charismatic smile on his face. He was confident, sexy, powerful…and utterly mad.

"Come with me," offered the ancient, his voice softening. He shifted his scythe to one hand and offered the other to Grell. "Something is happening that I don’t understand yet, and it goes deeper than the corruption in Shinigami ranks."

Grell stared dumbly at the offered hand, very much aware of the growing presence of searching officers in the streets, but still reeling from his own actions and the unexpected demonstration of Undertaker’s abilities.

"They no longer deserve you, rose," coaxed Undertaker. His heavy-lidded, silver-lashed gaze stayed locked with Grell’s, even when his long bangs blew over his eyes.

He was right, though. There was no turning back, at this point. His comment about corruption within the ranks of the organization rang eerily true to Grell. Lately, Senior Management had been making rather drastic moves to keep their most powerful reapers in check. Their extreme decision regarding Undertaker was proof of that. Looking at him that way, with his hand offered and his hair blowing seductively in the breeze, Grell found it impossible to refuse him.

Unfortunately, his mouth also found it impossible to connect with his brain. He meant to tell him that of course, he would go with him. Instead, he blurted: “My body is ready for you.”

Undertaker’s brows shot up with intrigue, and with typical Sutcliff flair, Grell covered up his embarrassment for his passionate words with flamboyant enthusiasm. He blew a kiss to his older companion and he winked at him.

"I’m _always_ ready for you.”

Undertaker grinned. “As much as I’d like to take you up on that offer right here and now, we have pursuit to worry about. We should be off.”

 

* * *

"It is believed that the prisoner escaped through a security weakness," William explained to his fellow officers. "We already have people working on isolating and addressing the weakness, so we should focus on capturing our quarry and subduing him, before he causes more harm."

Eric raised a finger, and when William nodded in acknowledgement, he spoke the question on many minds. “He was completely bound and unarmed. How did he managed to break free on his own?”

"He must have had help," reasoned Alan before the supervisor could respond. "Not even a reaper of _his_ skills could—”

"Sir! Mr. Spears!" One of the women from Personnel came charging through the hallway, her eyes wide behind her round glasses. "The scythe! Undertaker’s death scythe is gone!"

William absorbed the news with a frown. “I see. He’s that attuned to it, then.” He looked around at his fellow Dispatch officers. “Gentlemen, our fugitive is now armed. I don’t think I need to tell you how extremely dangerous he is. Split up into pairs and search all quadrants of the city, from the inner to outer iris. Do not, under any circumstance, engage the fugitive by yourselves. If you get separated from your partner and find our quarry, use your communication devices to report his location.”

They split up as directed and left the building. William paired up with Ronald, naturally. As they left Headquarters together, the blond asked a question that nobody else seemed to consider, in all the excitement. “Um…any idea where Sutcliff Senpai is?”

William cast a sidelong look at him, and the younger reaper’s expression fell. “Oh. He’s the one that helped him escape, isn’t he?”

"We don’t know that for certain," answered William calmly, though he secretly knew the truth. "He may already be out there searching for the fugitive alone, like the reckless fool he is."

"I don’t think you believe that anymore than I do," sighed Ron. "He fell for Undertaker too hard, too fast to do that. I just hope he doesn’t get himself into serious trouble, or get hurt."

"Grell Sutcliff is the very definition of ‘trouble’ Ronald. I think you should brace yourself."

The blond sighed again, and he manifested his scythe. “Yeah, I know.”

 

* * *

The alarms were going off all over the city, now. Grell followed gamely as Undertaker took to the rooftops and ran from one to the next, leaping with the grace of a cat. They made it to the outer trade quadrant, before a patrol group spotted them from the street below. They called out a demand for Undertaker to surrender, and they leaped up on the nearest rooftop to try and intercept him. The silver Shinigami came to a halt as three of them formed a semi-circle around him, and two more began to close in from either side. Grell made it onto the rooftop just behind him, and Undertaker quickly thought the predicament over.

To the eye that knew no better, it could appear as though Sutcliff had been pursuing him. There was a chance that they might not make it out of the city without capture, and Undertaker truly didn’t want Grell to suffer blame for his escape. Senior Management could decide to treat Grell to the same fate they intended for Undertaker, if they discovered he helped him.

He couldn’t allow that. The redhead yelled in sincere surprise when Undertaker nimbly leaped through the air and over his head, landing behind him. He immediately caught Grell around the waist and fitted the deadly, curved blade of his scythe against his throat, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

"Mr. Sutcliff!" called out one of the Dispatch officers, his face a mask of concern.

"My apologies, lovely," whispered Undertaker into Grell’s ear, "but I need you to lower your scythe, now."

Stunned by the unexpected turn of events and clearly confused, Grell did as he was told. Undertaker pulled him tighter against his body and he nearly smirked when Grell blushed in reaction. He peered through his bangs at the Shinigami officers surrounding him, unable to make out their individual features. He didn’t need his eyes, though. He didn’t rely on vision the way they did…not anymore.

"I’d advise you to back up, gents," he called out. "Otherwise I’ll be forced to open Mr. Sutcliff’s throat and spill his blood all over this rooftop. I’m sure we all agree that it would be best not to force me to reap him."

"You have nowhere to go, sir," the one in the middle said. Despite the situation, he used a respectful tone with him. "The organization wants to help you."

"By putting me in chains," reasoned Undertaker with a cold grin. "Word of advice; the only time I submit to chains is during love play. Now be a smart chap and don’t try to follow us, or Officer Sutcliff’s life will be forfeit."

"Why you cagey—"

Undertaker released his waist and put his hand over Grell’s protesting mouth, muffling his outrage. “What will it be, gents? Let me go, or see Mr. Sutcliff fall to the roof in two halves.”

They backed off, and one of them spoke into the telephone device he carried that was so far ahead of the mortal time period. “The fugitive has Sutcliff,” he reported, motioning for his companions to keep backing up.

Undertaker wasted no time. With Grell in tow, he jumped to the next roof…and the next after that. He dragged the complaining redhead along with him, and he advised him in a slightly winded voice to put away his scythe.

"Wouldn’t want you to trip and fall on it, love," explained Undertaker, still running and dragging him along. "You might accidentally cut yourself in half. That would spoil you as a hostage, I think."

"You back-stabbing lunatic," snapped the redhead. "I’m the only one who’s on your side and you—"

"Did what needed to be done, to protect your reputation, in case we get caught," finished Undertaker calmly. He checked for pursuit and when he saw that he’d put enough distance between himself and the group that nearly caught him, he jumped down to the street below. "If they think you’re my hostage, they might not suspect you of helping me escape."

Grell’s ire visibly faded. “Oh. Why didn’t you just tell me that?”

Undertaker chose an alley and he pulled Grell into it with him. “Couldn’t very well say it in front of those blokes, could I?” He grinned at the redhead, and he drew him close for a quick, affectionate kiss on the lips. “Forgive me?”

Grell smiled in spite of himself. “You’re a hard man to stay angry with.” He looked around. “I think this is as good a place as any to start forming a portal into the mortal realm. We’ll only have a short window of time before they detect the rift, though.”

"Then you—" Undertaker snapped his mouth shut and pushed Grell against the wall at the sound of hard-soled footsteps approaching from the street outside. He put a finger of warning to his lips, and Grell nodded silently. They stayed pressed tightly up against the wall like that as the footsteps came closer.

 

* * *

A glimpse of moon pale hair drew William’s attention down the alley as he started to pass by it, and he peered down it to see Undertaker and Grell looking out at him. The redhead’s gaze fairly begged him not to give them away, and Undertaker watched him warily, with one hand on Grell’s mouth and the other grasping his scythe.

William paused for the space of two heartbeats, before bringing his communication device to his ear and speaking into the receiver. “Nothing to report in quadrant C-12.”

He pointedly looked away from the couple, his gaze falling on Ronald as he approached. William tactfully met him before he could pass near the alley, and he adjusted his glasses with his scythe as he put his phone away. “Let’s double-back. This quadrant is clear.”

Ronald shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

As he guided his companion away, William silently wished Undertaker and Grell good luck. He’d done all he could do for them.

 

* * *

"Hmm, he might not be such a bad fellow after all," mused Undertaker when he and Grell were alone again.

"I knew he wouldn’t give us away," sighed Grell in relief.

Undertaker smirked with amusement. “You sure about that, love? You sound like you had your doubts.”

Grell shrugged, adjusting his long, red coat. “Will can be difficult to predict, I confess. He was the one that told me about the security fault, though. It wouldn’t make sense for him to give me the means to break you out, just to turn us in once I succeeded.”

"Unless he wanted you to take the fall," suggested Undertaker.

Grell shook his head in denial. “No. Spears is a cold bastard on a good day, but some part of him cares for me, whether he wants to admit it or not. He also worships the ground _you_ walk on. Now, we should get on with this, while we still have the chance.”

Undertaker nodded in accord. “You create the portal and I’ll watch for enemies and defend us.”

Grell nodded, and he began to concentrate. He would be fatigued from his efforts when he finished opening the portal, The short “jump” from earlier was already having an effect on his energy levels. Some Shinigami like William could traverse the realms with ease, hardly breaking a sweat in the process. Most of them, however, had to expend a great deal of spirit energy to do it.

A glowing nimbus began to form in the alleyway as time and space warped under Grell’s command. Undertaker was a dark, comforting presence at his back as he wove the fabric of time, building the portal bit by bit as quickly as he dared. Sweat broke out on Grell’s pale brow from his efforts, and it didn’t take very long before he heard the excited voices of their pursuit coming closer. They had detected the forming portal, and now they knew exactly where he and Undertaker were.

"Oh, hell," gasped the redhead anxiously. There was no way Undertaker could fight off the entire Dispatch department, no matter how good a fighter he was.

"Concentrate on your task, my dear," urged the Undertaker in a confident voice. "I’ll hold them off. You need only keep it open long enough for us to take a dive through it, understand?"

Grell nodded, his crimson brows furrowing with concentration. He heard the voices of the first two officers to arrive in the alley, followed by the ringing clash of metal against metal.

"Where did _those_ come from?” demanded one of the officers, and then there was a whooshing sound. There was a crack of impact, followed by a yell of pain and another metallic clash. Grell heard someone’s fist strike someone else, and then there was a grunt. More footsteps approached, and the sounds of battle grew louder and more frenzied.

The impulse to look over his shoulder and see what was happening was almost unbearable, but Grell stubbornly pressed on, trusting his companion to hold them off without getting himself reaped or captured. Undertaker’s next comment nearly startled him enough to break his concentration.

"Don’t think I won’t reap you if you stop, Mr. Sutcliff. I could have your records in my hands before these fellows make it two steps past me."

Remembering the purpose behind Undertaker treating him as a hostage, Grell tried to play the part. “This is no way to treat a lady!”

"Don’t worry, Mr. Sutcliff," someone called. "We’ll save—"

His bold announcement was cut off with a groan as something thudded into him, and a moment later, someone screamed. Grell felt a wet splatter of blood against his hand, and from the corner of his eye, he saw someone’s arm roll to a stop beside him. Dearly hoping the limb didn’t belong to Ronnie or anyone else he liked, he forced himself to keep focusing on his efforts.

"Done," he called when the portal was open and stable enough to use. "I’ve created your damned portal, you old creep!"

"Good," said the Undertaker.

Grell turned around to face utter carnage. He blinked in shock at the sight of at least half a dozen officers lying in various states of injury—some of them quite severe. Undertaker had somehow manifested those grave markers he loved to fling around so much, and two of the officers were pierced by them. One of the injured Shinigami was Eric, but he only appeared mildly hurt. Undertaker grabbed him by the arm, and Grell looked up at his blood-splattered, grinning face with shock.

"Let’s be off, then."

As the next group of Shinigami officers closed in, Undertaker swept his scythe out in a wide, devastating arch that cut into the buildings around them. The last thing Grell saw before being pulled into the portal with his companion was the rain of bricks and mortar coming down on the heads of their pursuit, and he yelled when he saw William get struck with one and go down. The next thing he knew, he was hurtling through the portal with Undertaker holding him close.

 

* * *

"Will! Open your eyes! Come on, don’t do this to me!"

William frowned and groaned, coming out of his feint to blink up at the worried young face hovering over him. “R-Ronald,” he muttered thickly. He’d bitten his tongue when he went down, and it was swollen and bleeding on his mouth. He tried to sit up, but Ronald stopped him.

"Don’t move. You got konked pretty hard on the noodle." Ronald’s voice was laced with relief. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

William looked. “Three. And be more careful with how you address me in public.”

Ronald winced. “Sorry, I was just really worried.”

William looked around at the devastation caused by one lone Shinigami, and he arched a brow. “I presume they escaped?”

Ronald nodded. “Yeah. Alan and Eric are digging people out of the rubble now. The portal’s gone.” He lowered his gaze and sighed. “I really hope Grell is going to be okay. How could Undertaker turn on him, that way?”

"Desperation," reasoned William, shutting his eyes. He saw through the ruse, of course, but he played along with it for Grell’s sake. He started to drift off, but Ron shook him.

"Don’t sleep! Let the medics look at your head first."

His caution was wise, and William didn’t argue with it. Regardless of accelerated healing, head injuries could be quite serious, even for his kind.

"Send teams to the mortal realm to pursue them," ordered William dutifully, "those that are still whole enough to try, that is."

 

* * *

Grell staggered against his taller companion, drained from creating the portal. It was early evening in London, and the skies were heavy with clouds. Lightning danced through the darkened sky, and thunder boomed in the distance. Undertaker supported Grell’s slight weight, keeping a protective arm around him as he guided him into a back street.

"I think I know where we are, now," Grell said groggily, looking around.

"Indeed," agreed his companion. "We’re in the market district. We probably shouldn’t stay out in the open for too long, my dear."

"Agreed," sighed Grell. "I do hope William will be okay."

"He’ll be fine," assured Undertaker. "I’m sure that hard head of his didn’t suffer a dent. First thing’s first, though."

Grell ogled him as Undertaker reached out without warning and pulled his glasses off. The chain broke, and Undertaker dropped the spectacles unceremoniously on the ground. Before Grell could bend over to retrieve them, the older reaper stomped them flat with his boot, shattering the lenses and warping the frames.

"Oh! M-my glasses!" wailed Grell, going to his knees. "How _could_ you!”

Undertaker caught him by the shoulders before he could finish the move, and he pulled him back up. He wasn’t smiling as he spoke to him, his face close enough for Grell to make out the details of his expression.

"They can use those to track you with," explained Undertaker. "This is going to be a short reprieve for me if I let that happen, don’t you think?"

Grell squinted mournfully down at his ruined glasses. “But, how will I _see_ anything, now?”

Undertaker shrugged and smiled, dragging his bangs out of his face. “The same way I do, love. With your eyes.”

Grell pouted at him, and Undertaker reached out to stroke his hair, running the long black nails through it soothingly. “You’ll get used to it. I’ll teach you how to use your other senses, and stop relying so heavily on your vision.”

Grell shivered at the damp cold in the air, and he drew his jacket closer around him. The skies opened up and the rain started to come down in a torrent. “Blasted London weather,” he complained miserably, trying in vain to shield his hair with his hand.

Undertaker leaned back against the wall and opened his robes, drawing the chilled redhead into it’s folds. Grell went to him willingly, enjoying the feel of his body pressed so intimately against his. He was enfolded in the black garments, and Undertaker nuzzled his damp hair.

"I’ll keep you warm, my dear. Unfortunately, I have no currency on me. I rarely accept coin payment for my mortuary services, beyond what I need to keep my business running and food in my belly. What about you?"

"I have some," answered Grell, his words muffled against the taller reaper’s chest. "Enough to get us by for a couple of days, at least."

Undertaker nodded. “We only need enough to get us to our first destination. I’ll need to collect some things, before we leave the country.”

"Leave the country?" repeated Grell with a frown.

"They’ll be searching all over England for us, lovely." Undertaker caressed Grell’s upturned face, and he smiled down at him. "We can’t stay here, regardless of how nice the weather is."

Grell snorted. Only Undertaker would think this soggy bastard of a day was ‘nice’. He sighed down at his ruined glasses. “I’ve had those since I graduated reaper training. Not many Shinigami my age can say the same.”

Undertaker rubbed his back, drawing the material tighter around Grell to keep the rain off of him. “I’m truly sorry for that, my dear. If there were any other way, I would take it. I know someone that can construct you a new pair, however, just as good as your old ones and free of any tracking elements.”

Grell smiled hesitantly at him. “Really? You aren’t just saying that to make me feel better?”

"Absolutely not," promised Undertaker. "Even so, I don’t want you relying too heavily on your new glasses, once they’re made. You need to learn to use the rest of your senses."

Grell offered a shark-toothed grin at him. “Are you going to be a strict instructor? Maybe give me a little spank now and then, to keep me in line?”

Undertaker grinned back at him, and Grell gasped with delight when he slipped a hand down to give his bottom a squeeze. “If that helps you focus, then that’s what I’ll do.” He lowered his mouth to the redhead’s and kissed him. He tasted of rain water and blood, and Grell moaned softly as his tongue sought entry to his mouth. The rain was steadily rinsing away the evidence of the earlier battle, but there was a bit of pink in Undertaker’s silver hair where some of the blood had blended in with it.

They kissed until Grell was happily swooning on his feet, and then Undertaker pulled away and looked around. “Now we just need to rent a carriage,” said the older reaper, ignoring Grell’s attempts to draw him down for another smooch. A man pulled up across the street in a covered motorcar, and he left it unattended to hurry into the tailor shop before getting soaked.

Undertaker’s grin returned, broader than ever.

"Or maybe we don’t need to spend a single shilling, after all."

 

* * *

-To be continued


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

"Move aside, move aside," called out Undertaker, beeping the horn on the automobile.

He couldn’t see any details ahead of him as he peered ahead, but he could see the street well enough to have a general idea of where he was going. People cried out in alarm and dove aside as the legendary reaper drove through London, heading for the nearest road leading out to the countryside. He passed a horse-drawn carriage and he waved benignly at the startled driver as he passed him by. Grell blew the man a kiss and relaxed in the passenger seat, propping his high-heeled boots on the wooden dash.

"Careful not to run over any of them," cautioned Grell, shutting his eyes. He threaded his fingers behind his head and settled more comfortably into the cushy seat. His red coat was draped over him, protecting him from the little bit of rain that came in under the vehicle’s canvas cover as they drove along. "This is nice. I think I would enjoy having one of these. Pity it isn’t fully enclosed like a carriage, though."

Undertaker grinned and he swerved to miss a blurred human form as it started to cross the street in front of him. He beeped the horn again in passing, and he laughed at the glimpse of expression he caught on the man’s face as he passed by.

"It’s like scattering chickens," he observed. He passed another carriage, before turning down another street. "Hmmm, I do hope we have enough fuel to make it to the Phantomhive estate."

Grell leaned toward him and laid his cheek on his shoulder, prompting the older reaper to put one arm around him. “And you really think the little Earl is going to lift a finger to help us? He isn’t very fond of me at all, you know.”

"Perhaps not," conceded Undertaker, "but he likes his dear Uncle Undertaker, after all."

Grell opened his eyes to look at him. “Even after what happened on the Campania?”

Undertaker nodded. “I’ve got a way with the boy. I’m sure he’ll put us up for the night and help make travel arrangements, if only to send up on our way and get us out of his hair.”

"And where did you have in mind?" pressed Grell. "Paris? Ooh, it’s been so long since I’ve been!"

Smiling at the thought, the redhead straightened in his seat. “Think of how romantic it would be…just you and I in the city of love.”

"With the entire Reaper society after us," reminded Undertaker with a smirk. "Much as I’d love to take you someplace nice, this isn’t a honeymoon. After we have your new glasses made, we need to go someplace where we can lie low, and figure out what’s really got their knickers in a bunch."

Grell frowned. “I wonder if it could be a power struggle in the chain of command. We’re really never told the details about changes in upper management. I can’t even _remember_ the last time I laid eyes on one of the Senior Managers.”

"They operate on the higher planes," explained Undertaker. "Just below the lowest choir of angels."

Grell put his head on his shoulder again. “So tell me what _you_ think is going on?”

Undertaker stroked the long, crimson hair and shook his head. “Couldn’t tell you, love. It could be there’s a power struggle like you say, or it could be there’s a threat to the Shinigami realm they haven’t seen fit to tell middle management about. All I know is things can’t be right, if they’d resort to doing what they tried to do to me. They’ve never tried to recruit me back into the reaping business, in all the years I’ve been retired.”

"You’re right," sighed Grell. "That _is_ strange. When we brought you in, I thought they were going to try and treat your madness, and perhaps release you later under probation.”

Undertaker snickered. “Ah, but my madness can’t be cured. Still, I’m lucky you took my side in this.” He turned onto the road leading out of the city, and he took a moment to nuzzle Grell’s hair. “I fully intend to make it up to you.”

Grell smiled in delight at the possibilities of how the gorgeous ancient might go about doing that. He tried not to think of what was going to happen to them now, with him unable to return to work and Undertaker a very famous, very wanted reaper. He stroked Undertaker’s leg slowly, going over the possibilities in his mind.

Perhaps he could take up acting. He was a good actress, after all. He might be able to make something of a career out of it and support them, once they settled on a location. All he knew for certain that he couldn’t stop himself from loving Undertaker, and he felt that it was worth losing everything else, to have him at his side.

 

* * *

"Hello, Bassy," greeted Grell happily. "You’re looking gorgeous as ever."

Sebastian Michaelis didn’t look a bit surprised to find them at the door when he answered it. His red gaze briefly flicked to Grell, before settling on the Undertaker again. “My young master and I thought you might return. Shall I presume you’ve been released for good behavior?”

Undertaker chuckled. “Something like that. Begging your pardon for showing up like this unannounced again, but we didn’t have the opportunity to ring you, first.”

"Sebastian, who is it?"

The butler turned his head and spoke over his shoulder in answer. “It is Undertaker and Grell Sutcliff, my lord. Shall I turn them away, or invite them inside?”

"What is that red pervert doing here?"

Grell huffed, and Undertaker reached back to squeeze his hand, silently shushing him. Ciel Phantomhive came to the door, and Sebastian moved aside to make room for him as he looked up at the two reapers.

"I suppose you want your ‘treasure’," reasoned Ciel.

Undertaker bowed cordially to him. “You suppose right, little lord. May we have some of your time, this evening? I would prefer you not call Shinigami authorities on me, this time.”

Ciel crossed his arms over his chest, smirking arrogantly. “What’s in it for me?”

"Your grandmother’s locket," answered the Undertaker without hesitation. "I’ll attune it to you so that you can open it and view the snippet anytime you like. There’s also the matter of free information I’ve given you in the past. I parted with some of it without even asking for a laugh, you may recall."

Ciel considered his proposal, and then he turned abruptly and walked back into the house. “Let them in, Sebastian. Show them to the drawing room and don’t let Sutcliff out of your sight.”

Sebastian placed a hand over his chest and lowered his gaze in acquiescence. “Of course. Gentlemen, do come in. Undertaker, your hat has been safely stored away since you were last here. Shall I fetch it for you?”

Undertaker perked up. “Yes, that would be lovely.” He took Grell by the arm in a courtly manner that had Sebastian raising a brow at them, but the butler stood aside to allow them to pass.

"You made quite a mess, the last time you were here," Sebastian said as the couple followed him to the drawing room.

"I’m not the one that called Dispatch on me," reminded Undertaker with a chuckle, "but I apologize for my part in that."

Sebastian smirked at him. “Fortunately, my talents allowed me to repair the damage without much hassle.” They reached the end of the wing he’d guided them through, and he moved aside and made a graceful gesture at the archway. “Please make yourselves comfortable, while I fetch some refreshment. I’m sure the young master will be with you shortly.”

 

* * *

Personally, Grell thought they were taking quite a risk coming here. The unfriendly looks Ciel gave him as Undertaker explained their situation left little doubt that he could turn on them at any moment. Grell was sure that the only thing keeping him from having his gorgeous butler call Dispatch again was whatever hidden feelings of fondness he still harbored for Undertaker. The mortician finished explaining and he sighed with happiness when Sebastian came back in with his top hat. Undertaker put it on and tucked a few locks of hair behind his ear.

"Now the world feels right again," he announced with a grin.

Grell couldn’t resist a smile for him. His gaze flitted to Ciel again, who was examining the locket Undertaker removed from his collection for him. “So, little Earl, if you help us, it could be the last time you need be graced with our presence. Surely _that’s_ worth something to you.”

"Believe me," Ciel answered dryly, "it is. Clearly your associates lack the competence to hold Undertaker, and it appears some of you lack loyalty to your organization, as well."

Grell colored with anger, and he stood up before his companion could stop him. “Now see here, you little brat,” he snapped, putting his hands on his hips, “if you knew what they intended to _do_ to him, you would have sprung him out, too!”

Ciel and Sebastian both looked at Undertaker—who had neglected to tell them the details concerning his incarceration. He spread his hands benignly and shrugged. “If they’d only planned on keeping me in there indefinitely or killing me, I probably would have stayed in their custody of my own free will. Thing is, they wanted to make me a puppet. I couldn’t allow that, you see. Mr. Michaelis gets something out of the Faustian contract the two of you share. That wouldn’t have been the case, with me.”

He tugged on Grell’s vest to urge him back onto the sofa beside him, and he explained in greater detail the fate he’d escaped. He put an arm around the still indignant redhead beside him, and he gave him an affectionate squeeze.

"So you see, Mr. Sutcliff saved me from a fate worse than death. Problem is, he buggered up his career doing it. We could play it off like I kept him hostage, but it’s going to take a lot of convincing and they’ll likely have him demoted and watched, for a while."

"And I have no interest in returning, anyhow," huffed Grell, crossing his arms stubbornly over his chest. "Not after what they tried to do. It isn’t the organization I thought I knew."

"So _that’s_ why your glasses are absent,” reasoned Ciel with a smirk. “I thought you were simply trying out a new look.”

Grell flipped his hair over his shoulder dramatically. “Believe me, when I try out new looks, the change is more significant than that.”

Ciel rolled his eye and started to say something that was bound to work Grell into a dramatic frenzy, but Sebastian tactfully spoke first. “This could be a portent of something more serious, my lord. If Shinigami Dispatch has begun drafting criminals into the ranks, one could assume they feel threatened.”

Undertaker nodded, drawing Grell close again to prevent another outburst. “That’s what my head is telling me. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from the Underworld that might point us to a clue, Mr. Michaelis?”

"Meaning rumors of a coup against the Dispatch society?" guessed Sebastian. When Undertaker nodded, he shook his head. "I’m afraid not. Then again, I hardly have dealings with Hell, these days. My duties to my young master take priority."

"Of course," sighed Undertaker. He looked to Ciel again. "So, little lord, do you think you can be of some assistance?"

Ciel considered the question, absently tapping his teaspoon against his saucer. Sebastian refilled his beverage, and then he did the same for the two reaper guests as his master nodded in accord. “Given the years of service you provided to my family before your betrayal, I believe we can work something out. I’ll provide you with the coin you would have gotten for your services if you had accepted it as payment. It should be plenty to see you off and living comfortably for a while.”

Undertaker nodded. “You’re quite gracious, young Earl.”

"There is a condition to me doing this," cautioned Ciel sternly. His gaze went to Grell. "In exchange for this payoff, I want nothing more to do with Reaper affairs, from this day forward. I know you can’t stop your former associates from seeking me out, but I never want the two of you to come to me again for favors. I don’t care if you have all of Heaven and Hell coming after you, today is the end of it."

"I think we can live with that bargain," agreed Undertaker.

"Good. The two of you can stay in the barn, tonight. I’ll see you fed and if you want to bathe, you’re welcome to make use of the bathrooms in the servant’s quarters. I’ll have your payment brought to you once it’s counted out, and I expect you to be gone by morning."

"Fair enough."

 

* * *

"So much for the legendary courtesy of the Phantomhives," grumbled Grell as he adjusted the blankets brought to them by Finnian. "Putting us up in a _barn_ for the night, of all things!”

Undertaker smiled at him, his hair still slightly damp from the shower he’d taken. “We’re fugitives, love. If they come here looking for us tonight, we’ve got a better chance of slipping away un-noticed from this barn, than we do from the manor.”

"Oh." Grell nibbled his lip. "I hadn’t considered that."

He sighed, squinting at his progress. His hair was still pinned up from the bath he’d taken. “I just find it impossible to make a decent bed out of hay and old blankets! I can’t even see what I’m doing! And what good did it do for me to take a bath, when I have no clean clothing to change into?”

Rather than be put off by his whining, Undertaker approached him patiently and helped him. “We don’t need anything fancy. Try not to fret so much.” He took two corners of the blanket, and together, they got it spread out over the pile of hay.

"I suppose it’s easier for me," reasoned the Undertaker as he dropped the pillows down. "I’m used to sleeping in coffins, after all. Pity we can’t retrieve anything from my shop or your apartment."

Grell shook his head and sighed. “No, they’d be on us before we could set one foot through the door. Not that I often get to wear anything besides the ensemble I’m in now, but there were some outfits I would have liked to bring with us.”

Undertaker removed his robes and sat down on the bedding. “We can buy you a new wardrobe,” he promised, holding a hand out invitingly. “Now come here and give old Undertaker some sugar.”

Grinning, the redhead took his hand as requested and sank down beside him. He cuddled into Undertaker’s embrace with a sigh, and the older reaper loosened his hair and freed it from its bindings. “I’m not easy to live with, you know,” Grell warned seriously as his companion drew the second blanket up to cover them both. “Just ask any of my work colleagues. Will absolutely hated sharing a dorm with me, when we were in training.”

Undertaker cupped his chin and urged his head back. “I think I can handle you,” he murmured, and then his mouth was covering Grell’s in one of those kisses that made his body sing with need and delight. It only lasted for a few moments, but Grell was breathless when he pulled away again.

"Undertaker," he whispered, "I’ve been meaning to ask you something about your past."

The older reaper stroked his back with long, soothing motions. “What’s that, lovely?”

Grell looked at him, and he combed his damp bangs aside to gaze into his eyes. “Will said that just before you deserted, you slaughtered a whole cult. What was that about?”

"Ah, _that_.” A rare frown stole over Undertaker’s sensitive lips. “If ever there were a group that deserved reaping, it was _that_ lot.”

"Well, what did they do that was so bloody awful?" demanded Grell with intrigue.

"They ate children."

Grell’s jaw dropped, and he studied Undertaker’s angelic features more closely for a clue that he was joking. He clearly wasn’t. In fact, Grell had never seen him look so grim or serious before. “So they were cannibals.”

"Of children," agreed the older Shinigami with a nod. "They had the notion that they’d extend their own miserable lives, if they ritualistically killed and consumed orphan children. I’ve always had a fondness for the little nippers, Mr. Sutcliff. They see the world through un-jaded eyes, and they aren’t usually frightened of me, the way their adult counterparts are."

Remembering that this reaper was known for being able to convince crying children to relinquish their souls, Grell nodded in understanding. He’d never been much for kids, himself, but he couldn’t fault Undertaker for liking them.

"I took matters into my own hands. I enjoyed quite the satisfying culling, that day."

Grell smiled as Undertaker’s tone provoked a little thrill of danger. He traced the unsmiling lips with his fingertips, and he sighed. “So gallant.”

"No, I believe I was just pissed off," corrected the mortician, but he winked at him, his lips finally curving into one of his more familiar, droll expressions. "But the end result earned some rather stiff punishment for me, and that was when I decided I’d had my fill of the reaping business."

Undertaker raised a hand before his face, spreading the long fingers. His frown returned. “What good is it to have all this power, if you never tend the flock?”

He shook his head and sighed, lowering his hand again. Though his feelings about mortals were apparently quite different, Grell couldn’t blame Undertaker one bit. He was such a complex individual, really. There was a kind heart beneath all that macabre humor—something that Grell Sutcliff couldn’t quite empathize with. Even William had more feelings for mortals than he did, and he was the coldest reaper Grell knew.

"You know," Grell said on sudden inspiration, "if you were a mortal, I’ll bet you would have made a fantastic father."

Undertaker grinned with delight. “You really think so?”

Finding his response charmingly indearing, Grell nodded, and he rubbed the tip of his nose against his affectionately. He often joked with Sebby and William that he wanted to have their babies, but this was the first time he actually felt like he would do such a thing, if he could. He didn’t actually have a womb to go along with his feminine spirit, however, and Shinigami were sterile anyhow.

"I think if I were made like mortal women, I would be tempted to give you all the babies you want." Grell nibbled the older reaper’s lip gently, before kissing him.

"Funny you should say that," murmured Undertaker thoughtfully. "You were a woman before you became Shinigami, after all."

Grell ceased his little kisses, and he stared at him. “I…I beg your pardon?”

"You used to be a woman," obliged Undertaker with a smile. He stroked Grell’s vivid hair and tilted his head. "Didn’t you know that?"

"I…I…well, I’ve always _felt_ like a lady on the inside, but I never knew I actually had the _body_ to match! How can you be so certain?”

"I can see it when I look into your eyes," explained Undertaker. "Shinigami aren’t always reborn to the same gender they were as humans, Grell. My guess is you were a woman who dreamt of being a man, and your new body reflected that when you transcended."

It made a ridiculous amount of sense, to Grell. He lowered his eyes with a sigh. “And now I’m a man who dreams of being a woman.”

Undertaker cupped his chin again, urging him to raise his eyes and look at him. “It’s all just flesh, lovely. Male or female, you’re still a lady to me, and I intend to treat you like one.”

Grell melted predictably under the assault of romantic endearments. “I want to know how in the hell you do that,” he said breathlessly, and then he cupped the back of Undertaker’s head and kissed him deeply.

Undertaker chuckled into his mouth, but his mirth faded quickly as their tongues caressed. His nails glided over Grell’s spine, before his hand settled on his hip. The casually possessive touch ignited Grell’s passion to further heights, and he didn’t even care about the whimper that arose in his throat. Undertaker rubbed his hip, before dragging his hand upwards to toy with the buttons of Grell’s vest.

Quite eager to consummate their relationship for the first time, Grell began to undo the buttons on Undertaker’s long, black garment. His companion began to reciprocate, flicking open Grell’s buttons one by one, and slowly parting the material. He took his lips away from the redhead’s and he kissed his way down his throat, sucking and licking at the pale skin as he went. Grell combed his fingers encouragingly through Undertaker’s soft, silver hair, and he shut his eyes with delight. The man knew how to use those lips of his, whether he was kissing his mouth or other parts. The moist tongue stroked the hollow of Grell’s throat at the clavicle, and another low whimper manifested in his throat. The whimper became an enthusiastic gasp when Undertaker’s thumb brushed against his right nipple, making it tingle pleasantly.

"Undertaker," he moaned, aching to be with him. He rubbed against him and bit his lip, feeling the evidence of the taller reaper’s desire pressing firmly against his own. One of Undertaker’s buttons flew off in Grell’s zest, to bounce and roll away on the wooden floor. Neither of them paid attention to it. Grell got the garment open, and he traced the scars winding over his companion’s lean, toned chest and stomach. Undertaker’s mouth kissed its way further down, and Grell blurted a delighted exclamation of pleasure when his teeth gently closed over his nipple to give it a light tug. His tongue flicked against it rhythmically to pleasure it, while his hand slid back around Grell’s hip to cup his bottom.

"Oh gods," moaned Grell, wriggling with need against the powerful, lean thigh wedged between his legs. There was a damp spot growing on the tent in his trousers, testament to how excited he was getting. He’d wanted plenty of men before, but not even William got him this hot.

Undertaker rolled him over onto his back, and Grell wrapped his legs around his waist, panting softly as he looked up at him. The silver hair was like a canopy surrounding him as Undertaker lifted his head to gaze down at him, and the horrible realization that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted came to Grell when he parted his lips to speak.

"I ought to stop, while I still can."

 

* * *

He damn near snickered at the devastated look he got from his blushing companion, but he somehow managed to hold it back. Grell swallowed and sputtered a complaint at him.

"What? Wh-why? Why would you want to stop?"

Undertaker stared at Grell’s bared, lithe chest and he wanted nothing more than to resume teasing the taut, pink little buds of his nipples. He looked so utterly desirable right now, with his crimson hair spread out beneath him and his chest heaving with his lusty breath. He was completely in love with the way he blushed, too. The color spread over Grell’s cheekbones in such a charming way.

"I told you I’d like to treat you like a lady," answered the ancient with a pained smile, "and that means our first time shouldn’t be in a barn."

Grell looked torn between frustration and adoration. “B-but…I’m horny!”

He fabricated a puzzled look, examining the amorous redhead with a lazy, seductive gaze. “You don’t look like you’ve grown horns to me, love.”

"It’s a metaphor," huffed Grell in annoyance. "It means I want sex, you fossil."

Undertaker laughed helplessly. He pressed meaningfully against his charming captive in demonstration. “As you can plainly feel, you aren’t alone in that. I don’t want to go back on my own word and end up ravishing you on a dusty barn floor, though.”

"I take it back," gasped Grell upon feeling the bulge of his arousal press so intimately against his. "I’m not a lady. Treat me like the whore I really am and ravish me!"

Undertaker shook with laughter, even though he felt like he might burst through his pants at any moment. “And that’s another thing I swore to you; never to call you that again.”

"You don’t have to _call_ me a whore,” corrected Grell, “just _treat_ me like one!”

Undertaker lowered his grinning mouth to the redhead’s, and he kissed him softly on the lips. “Now, now, lovely. You shouldn’t tempt me that way.”

Grell clutched at his shoulders, looking quite desperately passionate. “But I’m already worked up. You can’t possibly be so cruel as to leave me in this state, unsatisfied!”

"Hmm, now that you mention it, you’re quite right." Undertaker’s mouth traced down his chin to his throat again, the lips kissing softly as he spoke. "What sort of lover would I be, to leave my lady unfulfilled?"

He felt some of Grell’s tension ease, and he smiled and pulled open his shirt and vest the rest of the way. “Then we’re going to make love?” demanded the redhead, shivering with delight as Undertaker’s long, black nails skimmed over his ribcage.

"One of us is," agreed Undertaker. "Provided I can resist being selfish and breaking my word."

"And just what does that mean, exactly?" asked the redhead in breathless confusion.

Undertaker grinned at him and began undoing Grell’s trousers. “It means I won’t leave my lady unsatisfied, of course.” He winked at him, and before Grell could respond, he got his pants open and eased his hand onto them. Balancing his weight on one arm, he gripped the smaller reaper’s swollen length in his hand and he began to stroke it slowly, testing how much pressure to use in his grip.

"Shhh, my dear," he cautioned when Grell tossed his head back and moaned in appreciation. He smiled down at him, quite pleased with the reactions he was getting despite his gentle admonishment. "Try to temper your voice. You might startle the horses."

Not that said animals really posed a threat even if that happened. Being in the hayloft, the two reapers were perfectly safe from any errant hooves. Undertaker took Grell’s bottom lip in his mouth and sucked it gently, freeing it from the sharp teeth. “Easy with the biting too, love.”

"I want to touch you too," Grell whimpered, his brows furrowed with pleasure over heavy-lidded eyes. He slid his hands down to work at the fastenings on Undertaker’s pants.

The older reaper nearly stopped him, believing that two naked cocks could only lead to trouble. It was only a short step away from pulling Grell’s pants off and having his ass. Unfortunately for Undertaker, the feel of the redhead’s hand cupping his straining bulge destroyed his reservations like so much piss in the wind. He shuddered involuntarily at the surge of lust provoked by the simple contact, and he thrust his tongue into Grell’s eager mouth. He’d wanted to take it slow, wanted to tease him and seduce him until he was a hot mess of sexual need in his arms, but Undertaker wasn’t so certain he could restrain his own passion for that long.

"How long has it been for you?" Gasped Grell when Undertaker tactfully withdrew his tongue to kiss his way down his throat again.

"Far too long," admitted the ancient huskily. He eased Grell’s erection out of his trousers completely, and he resumed stroking it with loving intent. He smiled in response to the delicate whimper he provoked when he rubbed the tip with his thumb, and he adored the slippery feel of precum smearing the spongy cap. His breath caught a bit when Grell got his pants undone and claimed his erection, and it turned into a shaken laugh when the redhead expressed his feelings over his size.

"Oh dear heavens, you’ll make me lose myself on the first thrust! It’s as splendidly huge as your death scythe!"

"You flatter me, lovely," snickered Undertaker, "but that’s a bit dramatic."

"Hardly," sighed Grell in a blissful tone. "Mmm, you’re so very good with those hands, too. I want you inside of me so desperately!"

"Well, that answers one question," chuckled the ancient. He’d presumed Grell would want him that way when they finally did it, but he was prepared to be flexible.

He teased the squirming redhead’s left nipple, sucking and licking at it, and he stroked him a little faster. Grell squeezed his erection reflexively in his passion, almost hard enough to hurt, but not quite. The stiffened length of their arousal pressed together between their hands, exciting Undertaker further. He released Grell’s erection temporarily, so that he could wrap his fingers around both shafts. Grell followed his lead and they stroked each other in unison, their hands settling over one another’s to enclose both cocks in their eager grasps.

"Undertaker," moaned Grell as the older Shinigami switched to the other nipple to lavish attention on it. "Oh!"

Undertaker began to thrust his hips, rubbing his sex against Grell’s insistently within the circle of their enclosed hands. He released Grell’s nipple and kissed his way back up to his jaw, and then he licked the sweat beading above Grell’s upper lip away. His breath was hitching with pleasure, and he kissed him deeply and strove to bring them both to the precipice. He felt Grell’s teeth cut into his tongue with his reckless kiss, but he hardly minded. The redhead sucked the blood away, moaning louder and louder into his kiss. Grell’s free hand reached down to squeeze Undertaker’s pumping ass encouragingly, and his back began to arch.

Retaining enough sense to withdraw his tongue from his mouth when felt Grell’s body tensing hard beneath him, Undertaker kissed his throat. Grell tossed his head back and yelled hoarsely, helplessly, as he reached his climax. Undertaker stopped trying to hold back, and he came with him, groaning softly into his ear as he spent himself.  

"Ah, my dear," whispered Undertaker, voice slightly shaken with the pleasure of his release. He brushed his lips back and forth over Grell’s temple, just taking the moment to enjoy the feeling of him, and the afterglow. Grell was still whimpering, and his taut flesh was still twitching even though he had no more seed to expel.

"Mmm, still at it, are we?" Undertaker smiled, pleasantly surprised that he’d managed to give his companion such a lasting orgasm. He kissed his parted lips, swallowing the sounds of his delight in a loving kiss.

Trembling helplessly, Grell returned his kiss, and his grip eased up. His pleasure tapered off and he lay winded beneath him, grinning blissfully up at him when Undertaker lifted his head to gaze down at him.

"I haven’t come so hard since I was a new reaper," announced Grell in greatly satisfied tones. He lazily traced the scar tissue on Undertaker’s torso, gazing up at him with adoration. "You’re so very handsome in the afterglow of pleasure, too. I could stare at that sexy expression all night long."

Undertaker smiled down at him. “The feeling is mutual, my blushing beauty.” He released his grip on their softening shafts, and he eased his body off of Grell’s. He chuckled when Grell protested and tried to pull him back down.

"I’m just fetching a hanky to clean up our mess," Undertaker informed him. "I’m coming right back."

Grell sighed in compliance, and he grimaced down at the pearly libation smearing his torso. “Why do we even produce this stuff? We can’t make babies with it.”

Undertaker paused in the action of digging around in his outer robes for the item he was after, and he smirked at him. “You never can tell, my dear. Maybe you and I could be the exception to that rule.”

Grell chuckled. “Wouldn’t _that_ be something to see.”

Undertaker returned to the bedding and he leaned over him to give him a light kiss, while he diligently wiped up the evidence of their activities. “Truthfully though, Shinigami are modeled after humans. With the exception of yours truly and a few other ‘fossils’ still around, we _were_ human, once. Our bodies fundamentally work the same.”

"Mmm, makes sense," sighed Grell. He snuggled up to him when Undertaker finished up and got under the blanket with him again. "That was the best sex I’ve ever had without actually having sex."

Undertaker laughed softly with delight and nuzzled his hair as he held him close. “Then I’ve achieved my goal for tonight.”

"Absolutely," sighed Grell, closing his eyes. They kissed and touched with lazy sensuality, until they both drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

The next morning, Sebastian discovered Undertaker and Grell in the Phantomhive kitchen. He raised his brows at them inquisitively, and then he looked at Bard. The blond man shrugged uncomfortably and did his best to look extremely busy stirring batter.

"We’re baking cookies for the road," explained Undertaker, grinning happily at him. "Don’t mind us, Mr. Michaelis. We’ll be on our way as soon as they’re ready."

Sebastian reached into his blazer. “Well, you’ve saved me the trouble of going out to the barn to find you.” He procured a money pouch from his suit and he tossed it to Undertaker. “I think you’ll find my young master has been quite generous. There are paper notes in there, as well as coin. You’ll need to take care of any currency exchanges you require yourselves, though.”

Undertaker opened the heavy pouch and looked in with a grimace. “Yes, plenty of the Queen’s coin in there. I believe we’ll be set for a good while, on this.” He handed it over to Grell, who took it without argument and slipped it into an inner pocket of his vest. “And the other issue?”

Sebastian smirked and produced a slim leather case, which he carried over to him rather than toss at him. “Your cabin aboard _'The Duchess'_ has been secured. Do try to resist the temptation to raise an army of the dead, on this one. You might draw unwanted attention to yourself.”

"I’ll try," snickered Undertaker.

 

* * *

Almost as if it was fated, William T. Spears came calling exactly two hours after Undertaker and Grell left. Ronald Knox was with him, and both of them looked around with wary expectation when Sebastian came to the door.

"Pardon the un-announced intrusion," greeted William cordially. He adjusted his glasses and the look in his eyes said that he wasn’t particularly thrilled to interact with the demon. "We’ve come on rather important business. The fugitive we collected from your master’s estate recently has escaped custody."

"And we think he might have come by here," Ronald said when William paused to take a breath. "He had Grell Sutcliff with him."

"Oh?" Sebastian raised a brow at them. "And what makes you believe Undertaker would return to the place he was captured at, to begin with?"

"Revenge, perhaps," reasoned William calmly. "At any rate, we’ve been ordered to search every possible location he could have gone to. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that this Shinigami is extremely dangerous."

"No need," agreed Sebastian. "You and your associate are free to inspect the grounds, of course, but I would appreciate it if you don’t disturb the young Earl. He’s quite busy going over quarterly business figures in his study."

William glanced at his companion. “I’m afraid we’re duty bound to inspect the study, as well. If I don’t provide a thorough report, my department will simply send more officers to investigate.”

Sebastian opened the door further and stepped aside for them. “So long as you do so quickly and quietly. I shall have no choice but to remove you, if my master wishes it.”

"We understand," agreed William. "We should be done quickly."

 

* * *

Some forty-five minutes later, Ronald and William met back up on the driveway, after splitting up to search the grounds. “I hate to say it, but I think they’re covering something up,” Ronald reported, “I caught a whiff of Sutcliff Senpai’s cologne in one of the bathrooms in the servant quarters while I was poking around. I thought I was just imagining, it until I found this.”

William narrowed his eyes at the unusually long, unusually red strand of hair that Ronald held up for his inspection. It couldn’t have come from anyone else on the grounds. The supervisor sighed, but he was silently thankful that he and Ron hadn’t arrived on time to catch them.

"We can’t be sure that wasn’t left over from a previous visit," he reasoned.

Ronald’s brows went up. “What ‘previous visit’? Despite Senpai’s efforts, I’m pretty sure Sebastian doesn’t share his affection and the Earl can’t stand him.”

"No, but Grell was with us when we first came to collect Undertaker, as you recall. You may also remember him announcing that he needed to ‘powder his nose’ before we left. That hair could be left over from then."

"But what about the cologne?" insisted Ronald. "And don’t you remember Undertaker tossing that chain of trinkets he wears to Phantomhive? That thing’s pretty important to him. I don’t think he’d try to leave the country without it."

William bit back a wave of annoyance. Ordinarily, Ronald wasn’t the most perceptive of reapers because his mind was always on having a good time. Now that his beloved mentor was missing with the fugitive, he was a regular detective.

_~Of all the bothersome times for him to decide to act like a professional.~_

"Even if that does mean they stopped by here," insisted William, "Earl Phantomhive and his butler haven’t seen fit to inform us. Considering they were the ones to turn Undertaker in the last time he was here, I honestly don’t see where the logic would be in them hiding it from us."

"Hmm, good point," sighed Ronald. He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and looked around with a troubled expression on his face. "It’s just…I can’t shake the feeling that Sutcliff Senpai was here."

"You’re worried about him," excused William, offering his own subtle brand of comfort. He reached out to pat the younger reaper on the shoulder. "But try to remember that Grell is quite capable of taking care of himself. He might act like a lovesick imbecile most of the time, but he can be quite cunning, when he needs to be. I also very much doubt that Undertaker is interested in harming him—if he really even took him by force."

"You think Grell betrayed us, then?" Ronald didn’t look a bit pleased. He dug the broken glasses they’d found in London out of his pocket and held them up. "He wouldn’t have done _this_ , even if he did want to help Undertaker out.”

"There are things you don’t understand," William said softly.

"Then why don’t you explain them to me?" demanded Ron. "And while you’re at it, tell me why Grell would fuck up the glasses he loved so much?"

William grimaced in distaste at the use of vulgarity. He glanced up at the manor and he caught hold of Ronald’s elbow, leading him away. “Grell’s sympathy for Undertaker ran deeper than you know.”

"Well, he was crushing on him," reasoned the blond. "He does that a lot."

"Yes, but this wasn’t due to simple attraction," William explained. He sighed, at war with himself. "Grell was privy to classified information concerning Undertaker’s case file, as was I. His sympathy for him was well-founded."

"What do you mean?" pressed Ron. When the brunet looked away, he squeezed his arm urgently. "Will, tell me what he did! What was so hush-hush about Undertaker’s file, and why do you think Grell betrayed us?"

William compressed his lips, and he spoke in a low voice. “Fine. What I’m about to tell you is strictly classified, understand? If you share this with _anyone_ , I could stand to lose more than just my management position. The penalty would—”

"I’m not going to blab it to anyone," interrupted Ronald. "Just tell me what was so godawful urgent about Undertaker’s case to make Grell give up his glasses—if that’s really even what happened!"

"They weren’t just going to put Undertaker in stasis lockup," answered William grimly. "It was decided that a compulsion would be necessary to ensure his cooperation in the future, when and if he was freed from stasis."

Ronald’s brow crinkled. “And by ‘compulsion’, you mean…”

"Something like the Faustian brand that binds Sebastian Michaelis to his master," explained William, "except that Undertaker’s mark would bind him to the will of the Divine, compelling him to do as instructed."

Ronald paled. “Are you kidding me?”

William shook his head. “I wish I were. That’s why Grell began to falter, and…”

He looked away again, clenching his jaw.

"What?" pressed Ronald.

William’s gaze met his again. “And it’s why I helped him break him free.”

Ron’s mouth went slack, and he blinked at him. He frowned, lowering his gaze in thought. “Let me see if I understand this right. You…William T. Spears…helped a felon escape from Shinigami custody?”

"He wasn’t just a common criminal," excused William as calmly as possible.

"Save the speech about how legendary he is," sighed Ronald when the brunet started to say more. "I’ve heard it before, and I know how much you admire Undertaker. I’m just…I’m so _surprised_! _William T. Spears_ did something rebellious!”

"Would you stop blurting it out like that?" snapped William with a wary look around. "Other officers could arrive without warning, if there’s even slight confusion over who is being dispatched where. The last thing I need is for someone to show up while you’re announcing what I did! If you intend to turn me in, just do it."

Ronald shut his mouth and grimaced. “Sorry. Of _course_ I’m not going to turn you in! Now that I know what they were going to do, I can’t blame you one bit. What I’d like to know is what made them think that was a good idea, and how you and Grell sprang him in the first place.”

"I knew about a weakness in security that they could exploit, and I told Grell about it. I left the rest up to him."

Ronald scratched the back of his head, looking down at the broken glasses in his other hand. “So Sutcliff Senpai really _has_ defected, after all.”

"So it would seem," sighed William. "I imagine Undertaker mustn’t have had a terribly difficult time of convincing him."

"Wow." Ronald put the glasses away. "What are we going to do, then?"

"Our jobs," answered William simply. "We have an obligation to at least _appear_ to do our duty to Dispatch. For your own safety, continue on as you were, and never speak of this to anyone.”

Ronald nodded. As William started to turn away, the blond reached out and caught hold of his tie. William parted his lips to ask him what in the hell he was doing, but Ron yanked him close and kissed him firmly on the lips. Staggered by the unexpected, sudden display of public affection, William flushed and stared at him, unable to find his voice to admonish him.

"I’m proud of you, William." Ronald grinned up at him. "I never thought I’d see the day when you’d break the rules, even when it was the right thing to do."

William straightened his tie, still flustered. “We’re in public, Ronald. Honestly.”

The blond rolled his eyes. “Hmph. I guess some things are never going to change.”

 

* * *

Undertaker and Grell wiped down the motorcar when they were finished using it, and they left it in a ditch just outside London for the police to find. That evening, they headed for the docks. Undertaker’s hair was bound in a ribbon, and he was wearing a suit he’d purchased at a tailor’s shop. Grell was wearing a ruffled blue dress he’d hastily picked out at the last minute. Disguising himself as a woman had been Undertaker’s idea, and he wore his hair piled in coils on his head in a popular style.

"This really isn’t my color," complained the redhead with a sigh as he walked arm-in-arm with his companion.

Wheeling the single trunk they shared between them behind him, Undertaker shrugged and smiled at him. “Personally, I think you look lovely. We’ll find something more to your liking when we reach our destination, I’m sure.”

"Well, I hope so. If I’m going to be wearing dresses from now on, I need something bold and…"

Even as he spoke, they passed by a dress shop and Grell’s eyes were drawn to the display window. He stopped and stared, pulling Undertaker to a halt with him. “Oh, look at that!”

Undertaker stopped as well and looked. A red velvet evening gown of the latest fashion style was fitted over the wooden manikin bust in the window. The dress slightly darker shade of red than Grell’s hair, and the embroidery and lace lining the cuffs, neck and train were a deep burgundy color. It was precisely the sort of dress that suited Grell’s taste, and it had a matching satin handbag and a parasol with it.

Undertaker noticed the longing expression on his companion’s face. With a little sigh, Grell resumed walking. “Pity they aren’t open,” murmured the redhead. “I suppose we’d better not linger.”

Undertaker glanced over his shoulder at the shop window as they began to walk away. “Why don’t you go on ahead, my dear? I’ve just remembered something I ought to pick up, before we go. It won’t take long.”

Grell frowned at him. “Like what? Nothing is open, at this hour.”

"The pubs are," corrected Undertaker with a benign little smile. "I want to pick up a special bottle from one of my favorite places, before we go. We aren’t likely to find it where we’re going."

"Is it really that important?" Grell looked around uncertainly, squinting. "Our ship could be docking as we speak."

"I won’t be long," promised Undertaker with a little smooch on the lips. "Trust me, you’ll appreciate this vintage. Go on to the docks and get us a place in line to board, while I take care of this."

Grell sighed. “All right, but this had better be a damned good bottle.”

Undertaker grinned. “I’m sure you’ll find it to your liking.”

 

* * *

Once Grell was out of sight and visual range, Undertaker walked back to the dress shop. He tipped his hat politely at a passing couple, pretending to look over the small map of London he held in one hand. When the coast was clear, he quickly unlocked and opened the chest, and then he manifested his death scythe. He used the butt of it to smash the window, and he snatched the whole manikin bust and broke the stand off to fit it—along with the dress on it—into the chest. Thankfully, he and Grell hadn’t had the chance to fill it yet, and he managed to stuff it all in and get the chest closed.

Undertaker didn’t wait around when he heard the whistles of alarm. He formed a minor portal that would allow him to vanish and reappear a few blocks away, and he went through it with his booty just as a pair of police officers rounded the corner to investigate the noise.

 

* * *

Grell nearly jumped when the voice of his companion spoke into his ear, his warm breath tickling him. “I didn’t keep you waiting for too long, did I lovely?”

He turned to look up at the taller reaper, his admonishing words dying on his lips at the sight of his handsome smile. He looked so dapper, with his bangs tucked back under his hat and his long hair gathered in the ponytail. Grell couldn’t fault nearby ladies for the interested looks they gave him, and he slipped his arm through Undertaker’s and cast a smug grin over his shoulder at one of them.

"So you got your bottle of whatever it was you were after?"

"They were out," Undertaker said with a shrug, "but I found something better. I’ll show you once we get to our cabin."

Grell looked mightily intrigued, but the bellow of the incoming ship’s horn distracted him from any questions he might have asked. He looked at the vessel with interest. “It isn’t quite as luxurious as the last one we were on, but so long as you don’t cut it in half, I won’t complain.”

Undertaker laughed and brought Grell’s gloved hand to his lips for a kiss.

 

* * *

-To be continued     
  
  


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

"Are you ready for your surprise?"

Grell turned around, leaving off further inspection of their private cabin at the mention of a surprise. “I’m getting a surprise?”

Undertaker grinned and nodded, gesturing at the trunk he’d placed in the corner of the room. “Go and have a look inside, my dear.”

Motivated by curiosity and romantic possibilities, Grell walked across the room to have a look. Undertaker watched and waited silently as the redhead opened the trunk and looked inside. Grell’s brows shot up at the sight awaiting him.

"M-my dress," he breathed, lifting the item out with the manikin still inside of it.

He looked up at Undertaker in bewilderment, hardly able to make out more than the grin on his features. Grell stood up, and he flipped the skirts up to remove the supporting manikin from inside of the dress. He went to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall by the door, and he held the dress up to his body, squinting at his reflection. He began to grin in delight, and Undertaker adjusted the sconce on the wall to give him more light as he came up behind him.

"We can have some adjustments made, if we need to," murmured the taller reaper. "This ship has dress and tuxedo shops on board for that sort of thing." He kissed the side of Grell’s neck, pressing his lips against his pulse.

Grell turned in his arms and embraced him, crushing the dress between them. “You stole it for me.”

"Well, I would have bought it, but they were closed," reasoned Undertaker. "Since you’re embracing me, I take it you don’t mind."

"No man has _ever_ stolen a dress for me, before.” Grell laughed with delight, knowing it sounded completely cracked, but unable to bring himself to care.

"Maybe we could find you a pair of nice lace boots to go with it," suggested Undertaker.

The ship began to move, and Grell staggered against him a little as he lost his balance. Undertaker’s arm went around his waist and he held him close in support. “Why don’t you try on your new dress, while I go and find out where the shops are? We can do a bit of shopping before dinner.”

"I like that plan," enthused Grell with a blush of adoration.

Undertaker smiled at him, gave him a kiss and then left him to change. Grell sighed when he was gone, and he began to undo the pearl buttons down the front of the dress he was wearing. He had to stuff his corset to create the illusion of breasts and some aspects of dressing the part were indeed uncomfortable, but he’d never felt more like a lady. He’d never been _treated_ more like a lady, either, and he rather wished he really were Undertaker’s wife, as his false travel documents said.

"I am going to make this a night you’ll never forget, my dear ‘husband’," promised Grell to his absent companion; and he meant every word of it.

He slipped out of the dress and he adjusted his “breasts” beneath the support cups, making sure they weren’t lopsided. He tugged on his lacy panties and adjusted his package within them, grimacing a little. The one problem with feminine undergarments was fitting his stuff inside. If he got excited, he ended up coming out of them. It wasn’t that important when he had a dress covering him up, but he wondered if Undertaker would find it unappealing. After all, it only took a single kiss from the man to get him hot and bothered.

 

* * *

Undertaker returned to find Grell dressed and ready. The redhead twirled around with a bright smile as he stepped into the cabin, and Undertaker closed the distance between them for a better look.

"It suits you," he approved with a grin, taking Grell’s hands and leading him into another dancing twirl. He pressed one hand against the small of Grell’s back, and he began to dance with him. "How does it feel?"

"It’s a little tight in the arms," answered Grell, "but as you said, that’s easy enough to have adjusted. You’re a surprisingly graceful dancer, by the way."

The white smile grew broader on his lips. “I used to practice with cadavers.”

"How…nice." Not even Grell knew exactly how to respond to that. He put aside the mental image of his handsome ancient dancing with a corpse, and he allowed him to twirl him again. When Undertaker pulled him close once more, his mouth descended to his to give him a deep, sensual kiss. The erotic motions of his lips and tongue effectively chased away all thoughts of dead bodies, and Grell winced a little when he hardened in his panties.

"What is it?" questioned Undertaker softly when he noticed his sudden stiffness.

"I’m afraid ladies’ undergarments aren’t designed to comfortably hold man bits," sighed Grell. "I…need to take a moment to shift things around."

Undertaker chuckled softly. “Ah, of course.”

"Don’t laugh," huffed Grell, turning around to put his back to him while he hiked up his skirts to make his adjustments. "It’s your fault for putting me in this state. Everything fits until I get excited."

Undertaker politely averted his gaze, though he would have dearly enjoyed personally helping Grell with his problem. “Need a hand, lovely? I have two available.”

Grell glanced over his shoulder at him, and he smirked. “If I let you give me a hand now, we won’t make it out of this cabin. I have the situation under control.”

Undertaker nodded and too his hat off. Setting it on the bed, he combed his fingers through his hair. He didn’t much care for the gloves he wore, but it was necessary to hide his nails. He’d trimmed them short, but he could do nothing about the onyx color of them. Shinigami nails blackened with great age, until they were just as dark as demon nails.

"Alright," announced Grell after a couple of moments. "I think everything is tucked back where it should be, again. Just do me the favor of not being so blasted sexy, would you?"

Undertaker snickered beneath his breath. “Can’t say I’m even sure what I was doing that qualifies as ‘sexy’ to start with, but I’ll try.”

He put his arms around his companion as Grell turned to face him, and he drew him into his embrace. Grell laid his head against his chest with a contented sigh, and he shivered with pleasure when Undertaker stroked his back.

"I’m not sure I can ever adjust to going without glasses," confessed Grell.

"Not to worry," Undertaker assured him. "I’ll take you straight to my friend, when we reach New Orleans. She’ll get you sorted out and you’ll have a brand new pair of glasses in no time."

"You didn’t tell me it was a ‘she’." Grell looked up at him. "Is she pretty?"

Undertaker raised a brow. “Does it matter?”

"Well, yes," insisted Grell. "You have this mystery friend in a strange land that has the ability to make Shinigami eyewear, and you’ve told me nothing about her."

"There isn’t much to tell," assured Undertaker, grinning again. "Are you jealous, little rose?"

Grell nibbled his lower lip, drawing a spot of blood, as usual. “Go on and call me a hypocrite if you like, but I’m the possessive sort.”

Undertaker laughed softly. “So I’ve noticed. Well, to answer your question, Madame Celeste is retired, like myself. She used to work in the glasses manufacturing department, and she still knows the secrets behind it. She owns an eyewear shop in the city. I haven’t seen her in years, but I trust she’s still in business.”

"And what if she isn’t?" Grell frowned at the thought. "What if she isn’t even alive anymore? Even reapers can die."

"True," agreed Undertaker, "but we’ll worry about that when we get there. I doubt Celeste would die easily, but if she isn’t around any longer, we’ll search for other options."

He looked down at Grell and he caressed his upturned face. “You might just have to learn to adjust to life without glasses at all, my dear. I promise you though; I will do what I can to make sure that isn’t necessary. Now, let’s put aside that worry for now and see about stocking the wardrobe, eh?”

Grell nodded in agreement. Shopping was at the top of his list of favorite things to do, right under kissing and reaping.

 

* * *

"Yes sir. I understand, sir." William ended the call and he looked at Ronald. Normally a master of his emotions, he still couldn’t completely hide the dread in his gaze from his lover.

"Let me guess," said Ronald, "Senior Management is pissed."

The brunet sighed and picked up the pen lying across his paperwork. He absently twirled it between his fingers, his troubled eyes staring blankly at the documents. “Dispatch has apparently demonstrated gross incompetence, by allowing such an important prisoner to escape.”

Ronald winced. He could just imagine the reaming William must have gotten, and he was again treated to a feeling of pride for him. Knowing that he would face the brunt of their anger couldn’t have made it easy for him to make the decision to help Undertaker.

There was a knock at the door, and William pressed the button on his desk to unlock it. Eric Slingby poked his head in, his wavy blond locks falling partway over his eyes. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

"Just a some doom with a little side of gloom," quipped Ron. "What’s up?"

Eric stepped into the office and shut the door behind him. “One of our London informants may have spotted our fugitive earlier this evening, outside a dress shop.”

William raised a brow expectantly.

Eric dug out a note he’d scribbled down and stuffed into his blazer, and he read from it. “Over six feet tall, long gray hair and an obvious scar running diagonally down his face. He was dressed in mortal civilian clothing, but he moved like a reaper.”

Eric put the slip of paper away and looked at William. “The suspect reportedly vanished from sight after breaking the shop window. He took a dress that was on display.”

Both William and Ronald stared at him.

Uncomfortable with their stares, he shrugged. “Undertaker isn’t known for sanity. Why do you both look so surprised?”

Ronald snapped his fingers as best he could in the gloves he wore. “Grell. The dress was for Grell!”

William thought about it, and he nodded. “Quite possibly—if the suspect really _was_ Undertaker.”

"You think Grell would dress up as a…oh, never mind." Eric immediately vetoed his doubt when he considered the source.

"Disguise," reasoned William. He got out of his chair and he walked over to the window. "Sutcliff can pull off a very convincing young woman. With Dispatch searching for two males, it’s not a bad idea. As long as he hides those fangs of his, most people won’t see through it."

"And if he uses a wig, he could be even harder to identify," said Eric.

Ronald smirked and shook his head. “No, not Senpai.”

When Eric looked at him inquisitively, the younger reaper explained further. “Grell takes a lot of pride in his hair. He might temporarily dye it, but he’d never hide it under a wig.”

"I wouldn’t put anything past him," sighed William, "but for now, we’ll go with the assumption that he hasn’t changed his hair color or adorned a wig. Have our people double-check the logs of all outgoing trains and ships from London. Ask our contact at the Yard to inform us of any further reports of stolen traveling vehicles."

Eric nodded and gave a little salute, before making his exit. Once they were alone again, Ron gave William a troubled look. He walked over to him and he gazed out at the night sky. It was later in the Shinigami realm than it was in the mortal realm, and everyone was tired from working overtime. William was no exception; he had dark circles under his eyes now, and Ronald knew he hadn’t slept a wink for over twenty-four hours.

"What are you doing, Will?"

The taller man looked at him with a frown, and Ronald sighed. “I mean you’re really putting effort into finding them.”

William nodded. “It would look suspicious if I didn’t.”

That made sense to Ronald, but it still bothered him. “And what if our people _do_ catch up with them?”

"Then I’ll do what protocol demands. I’m a Dispatch officer, and I will act accordingly." William cupped his jaw and squeezed it warningly; not enough to hurt, but just enough to cause some discomfort and get his attention. "And so will _you_ , Knox. I shouldn’t need to explain the reason why, again.”

Frustrated and more than a little anxious for his mentor’s safety, Ronald slapped his companion’s hand away and gave him a resentful glare. “No need. You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

William’s expression softened, and he averted his gaze, betraying regret. “I…apologize. You aren’t the only one who’s worried, Ron.”

Understanding how much pressure he was under and how hard it was for him to hunt down his hero like this, Ronald found his anger evaporating. He reached out to lay his hands on the taller Shinigami’s shoulders, and he gave them a comforting squeeze.

"Crash," he suggested. "You’re entitled. Hell, if anyone here deserves a nap, it’s you."

"I don’t disagree with that," answered William, "but I still have a lot of work to do, before I can call it a night. How unsurprising, that Sutcliff is again the cause for my overtime."

Ronald could have told him that his own actions were really the cause of his overtime, but he didn’t want to make William regret them more than he already did.

 

* * *

Undertaker encouraged him to buy whatever struck his fancy, so that was exactly what Grell did. In addition, he picked up something on a whim that was both for him _and_ for his companion. Hoping he wasn’t making a huge mistake, Grell had the shop lady box it all up and have it delivered to their cabin. He met up with Undertaker in the top deck restaurant and he was grudgingly thankful to Ciel Phantomhive for providing first class accommodations for this trip. It made up for the night in the hayloft, at least.

The one problem—aside from normal discomfort associated with ladies’ attire—was his inability to clearly see anything more than three feet away from him. He only spotted Undertaker among the population of diners because he took off his hat and waved it around. Sighing in relief, Grell approached the covered table, and Undertaker stood up to meet him and hold his chair out for him. Blushing with pleasure at the treatment, Grell took his seat and allowed his companion to scoot him closer to the table. Undertaker sat down across from him and he poured a glass of champagne for him from the bottle he had sitting in the chilled bucket.

"Here we are," said the ancient with a satisfied smile. "Did you have a good time shopping, lovely?"

"Are you joking?" Grell smiled brightly at him and he sipped his champagne. "I think this is the most fun I’ve had in ages." He held up his glass, and Undertaker clinked his against it in a toast.

"Wonderful," approved the mortician. He lowered his voice. "What’s my name again?"

For a minute, Grell thought he was testing him. Realizing he’d actually forgotten his own alias, he fought the urge to laugh at him. “Jonathon Cambridge, and I’m your lovely wife—”

"Bethany," finished Undertaker before he could. He took one of Grell’s hands in his and brought it to his smiling lips for a little kiss. "That part, I remember. I never call out to myself, though—least not while I’m awake. You apparently need a bit of practice responding to your name though, darling. I thought I was going to have to come and fetch you, when you came in."

The mental image of Undertaker moaning his own name in his sleep was enough to make Grell snicker. “Have you? Called out your own name, I mean.”

"Not that I’m aware," answered the older reaper, "but stranger things have happened." He released Grell’s hand and he absently toyed with the piercings on his left ear as he picked up the menu to squint at it.

"Any idea what this stuff is?"

Grell picked up his own menu to have a look, and he nodded. It occurred to him that for all his romantic, gentlemanly class, Undertaker was quite out of touch with upper class culture. It was hardly surprising, for a man who spent most of his time in a basement doing autopsies.

"Scoot around closer to me," suggested Grell. "I’ll explain some of the menu items to you." He grimaced. "Although even I may not be able to interpret some of them."

Undertaker chuckled softly and scooted around the table. “I’m sure you’ll do fine; better than me, at any rate. I just want something tasty and filling.”

"Hmm, pretentious servings aren’t really meant to be very filling, but if we order enough courses, I’m sure we can satisfy that bottomless pit you call a stomach."

The ancient laughed in delight, leaning close to Grell without taking it to an improper level. “Hmm, then what would my lovely bride suggest?”

Grell considered the menu as he daintily sipped his drink. He had to consciously avoid nibbling his lip or showing his teeth, but he wasn’t unpracticed with deception. He wanted to lay his head on his companion’s shoulder, but a proper lady certainly wouldn’t have done such a thing in public. He explained the more complicated menu items to the best of his ability

A waiter approached, and he gave a cordial little bow to the waist. “Sir, Madame, may I suggest you try tonight’s cucumber soup? It’s the chef’s special.”

Undertaker glanced up at him, then at Grell. “What do you think, my dear?”

"The soup will do fine," agreed the redhead.

"Excellent," enthused the waiter. "And for the rest of your meal?"

Undertaker again looked at Grell, as if asking for his opinion. Grell’s amusement at seeing him so uncertain was cut off by Undertaker’s next comment.

"My wife is in a delicate condition. I think I’ll let her make our dining choices."

Grell ogled him as the waiter smiled.

"How progressive of you, sir. Madame, what will your choices be, tonight? Are you certain you wish to drink champagne? We have an excellent selection of tea."

"I…I’m not," Grell sputtered, prepared to deny Undertaker’s announcement that he was pregnant.

"Now, now, dear," admonished Undertaker, reaching over to give one of his hands a gentle squeeze. "You’re dining for two. Don’t be shy; I’m sure our waiter understands."

The older Shinigami placed two fingers against his smiling lips, and his eyes sparkled like emeralds with amusement. Determined not to let his antics provoke him into making a scene, Grell went along with it and he smiled sweetly up at the waiter. He only partially displayed his teeth, hiding the points behind his lower lip to make his smile appear normal.

"Very well, then. We’ll start with the soup, and then I would like two of these, some of those, and…hmm…four of these. After that…"

Undertaker listened to it all with a sort of rapt fascination that made it impossible for Grell to remain angry with him. Sometimes he was a sexy beast of a gentleman, while at others, he was as curious and guileless as a boy.

 

* * *

Undertaker tried to make up for his little prank by dancing with Grell in the ballroom after dinner, but the redhead wasn’t letting it go so easily. Grell certainly held grudges like a woman. When they decided to retire to their cabin, Undertaker helped his companion unfasten his dress and he loosened his corset for him. He removed his shoes and he politely waited while Grell went behind the privacy screen to change for bed, refraining from having a peek even though he’d seen most his body already.

"That was a rotten thing to do, at the dinner table," complained the redhead. An arm came up and a slim hand made a brief appearance. "I know I said I would have your babies if I could, but honestly! Oh! Now you’ve got me sounding like _William_! Do you see what you’ve done?”

Undertaker frowned briefly at the mention of the Dispatch supervisor. He absently turned his emerald ring around on his finger, now bare of gloves. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve always had an excessive personality and I can’t ever resist a good joke. It’s just part of our cover, and if it makes you feel any better at all, you make a positively glowing—”

Grell stepped out from behind the privacy screen, and Undertaker immediately sobered as he looked at him. “Bride,” he finished stupidly. He stepped closer to him, closing the distance with inhuman grace and silence so that he could have a better look at him.

"Well now, what have we here?"

He reached out to capture a lock of Grell’s freed hair, spiraling down over his shoulder to mingle with the rest of the crimson mass. Grell was in a gauzy pink nightgown with black lace at the cuffs and the hem. It fell to his knees and it draped his slim body delicately. Aside from the length and semi-transparency, it was a modest gown with little pearl buttons down the front, all the way up to the throat. He fingered the ruffles along the shoulders and he smiled with delight, finding the garment more than appealing on Grell. He looked androgynous to him, and quite alluring.

Grell looked up at him uncertainly, blushing as he was inspected. “Don’t laugh,” he warned. “I’ve always wanted a gown like this, and I chose the color for you.”

"Me?" Still smiling, Undertaker ran his hands over Grell’s softly cloaked arms in a slow, sensual glide.

"You have a secret love for the color pink," insisted Grell.

"Think so, do you?" Undertaker slowly put his arms around Grell’s waist, drawing him closer. "And what gave you the idea that a dusty old crypt keeper like myself prefers the color pink?"

"You dress all of your lady ‘clients’ in it," answered Grell a bit breathlessly. "All of the bookmarks in your shop are pink, too."

"Hmm, I should probably invest in new bookmarks then, if I ever return to that shop." Undertaker laughed softly. "I honestly never expected anyone to take notice."

"Admit it," Grell pressed, his cheeks dimpling as he smiled up at him in satisfaction. "You have a weakness for pink."

Just as capable at having a good laugh at himself as at others, Undertaker laughed and gave him a nod of confession. “All right. I admit that I do adore the color pink on a pretty lady.”

He let his eyes rove over him, and he ran the back of his night-dark nails over Grell’s cheek with one hand, while keeping the other splayed over the small of his back to keep him close. “And you, my dear, are a _very_ pretty lady.”

Grell’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he turned his head to nuzzle the back of Undertaker’s hand. “You aren’t just humoring me, then? You really like it?” He looked down at himself, the fringe of his vivid hair falling forward over his brow. “I lack the curves of—”

Rather than try to explain to him again that he could love his male body as thoroughly as a female one, Undertaker silenced him with a kiss, and he combed his fingers through his hair as he plundered his mouth. He resisted the urge to rip the delicate garment off of him as Grell returned his kiss, fondling his tongue with his own. The sharp points of his teeth stabbed Undertaker’s tongue when he pushed deeper into Grell’s mouth, and it only served to arouse him more. He scooped the redhead up, and he carried him bride style over to the bed while Grell gasped and put his arms around his neck.

"Undertaker," Grell gasped between kisses, "Are we finally going to—?"

The question didn’t need completion for him to understand where it was going. Undertaker smiled at the eager young reaper in his arms, and he eased him down onto the bed. “I think I’ve resisted temptation for long enough, and you _are_ my wife. Besides, you’re already expecting.” He winked at him, shaking his bangs out of his eyes as they fell free, now that the hat wasn’t holding them back. “It’s past time for me to do the honors.”

"Yes, it is," agreed Grell with a sigh.

He gazed up at him through heavy-lidded eyes that fairly glowed with lust. He started to reach out to help him out of his clothing, but Undertaker caught his hand and shook his head, going down to one knee before him.

"In a moment, lovely." He kissed the hand and he eased it aside, onto the mattress. "Let me treat you like a lady, before I fuck you like a whore."

Grell blushed and gasped with delight, and the protruding part of his gown darkened as a tiny spot of dampness formed there. He moistened his lips with his tongue and gave Undertaker an absolutely libidinous look.

"Dear sir," said the redhead passionately, "Do as you see fit with me—but I want your promise right now that you’ll allow me to kiss every one of your scars, later."

"Absolutely," promised Undertaker huskily.

He ran his hands over the long, smooth muscles of Grell’s thighs, admiring the shape of his legs. He had dainty feet for a man; which was quite fitting, since he was playing the role of a woman on this journey. He lifted one to set it against his shoulder, kissing the ankle softly as he rubbed the sole of it. Grell watched him with a telling blend of anticipation and concern on his face, and it occurred to Undertaker that he might not be as experienced in this body as he’d first thought. He knew he’d been a reaper for at least fifty years, but he had no idea of Grell’s romantic history, during that time.

Undertaker’s own encounters stretched out over countless centuries, and he’d enjoyed pleasures of the flesh with both men and women, enjoying both but having no particular preference for either. Some of his lovers were more memorable than others—particularly one mortal woman, whose touch he hadn’t completely banished from his heart and memory since she passed, more than one-hundred years ago.

Undertaker pressed soft, sensual kisses over Grell’s calf, slowly working his way up to his knee. He looked up at him through his bangs as he tasted his skin, and he caressed his other thigh with his hand. He slid his fingers over the smooth skin, curving his touch inward and gently urging Grell to part his thighs further. He could see the shadow of his nipples through the gauzy material of the gown, as well as the outline of his erection and the ruby thatch framing it.

It made him want to skip the appetizers and go straight to the main course, but the long years of his life had taught him patience, amongst other things. He didn’t admonish Grell for stroking his hair, and he reveled in the sound of his excited breathing. He licked the inside of his knee slowly, sensually, holding a promise of bliss in his gaze as he stared into Grell’s eyes. He pushed the material of Grell’s nightgown up, making it bunch at the waist as he exposed more of him. He saw a thin trickle of blood slipping between Grell’s sharp teeth, and he paused his seduction to get partly off of his knees and kiss the blood from his lips. He braced his hands on the mattress, on either side of Grell’s hips, and when he’d licked away the last of it, he gave him a warm smile.

"Lay back, my dear. I have so much more to give you."

 

* * *

Grell started to tremble, and he despised himself for it. The last time he’d been with a man, it ended in disappointment. Once the curiosity was satisfied, he never heard from them again. That was how it usually went. That was what he’d come to expect, and that was why he’d given up on ever finding real love. Undertaker knew what he was doing; it was in his eyes, his touch, and his kisses. Would he still want him when it was over, though?

He tried not to doubt himself. He knew he was gorgeous, even if those who admired him weren’t sure what they were looking at. The reactions he got from his partners weren’t fabricated. The problem was that lust seemed to be all they were capable of giving him. Could this ancient, this god of a reaper, finally give him what others could not? Was he “the one”?

As Grell lay back on the bed, he felt the soft material of his gown slide further up his body in a sensual caress. Undertaker’s lips resumed where they left off, favoring him with butterfly-soft kisses along his inner knee. He did the same to the other leg, and his hands stroked Grell’s outer thighs and pushed the gown up further and further. His lips reached the apex of his thighs, and he nuzzled between them gently, pressing his nose and mouth against Grell’s balls, before exposing his swollen groin completely. He traced the line of Grell’s pelvis with his tongue, leaving a moist, teasing trail in his wake.

"I…oh…Undertaker."

He closed his eyes as a shiver of pleasure ran through him. Undertaker’s hair was caressing his skin like silvery cobwebs as he seduced his thighs apart. Despite his usual, flirty behavior, Grell truly did feel like a bride on her wedding night. He wondered if it would hurt when the first thrust made him bleed.

He shook himself out of it with a frown, briefly forgetting the delicious sensations his lover was provoking. He’d _never_ thought quite _that_ much like a woman before. His confusion only lasted until Undertaker thoroughly distracted him from it by pressing a kiss on the tip of his cock. Grell cried out softly, and he slid his fingers through Undertaker’s silken hair, loosening it from the ribbon. The talented, expressive mouth closed over the head of the organ and slid down, sucking wetly as it began to sheath him. Undertaker’s hands cupped his hips, the newly trimmed nails digging in slightly as he held him still. His teeth skimmed lightly over the skin of Grell’s erection as he took him into his mouth, and his tongue cradled the underside.

"Dear gods," panted the redhead, yanking his hands out of Undertaker’s hair to grab fistfuls of bed sheets.

He’d braced himself just in time. Undertaker began to bob his head rhythmically, massaging him with his tongue, sucking firmly with his lips and teasing him with his teeth. His thumbs stroked over his hipbones as his hands braced them. The ancient chuckled softly when Grell whimpered a heartfelt, dramatic compliment, and the sound vibrated around his sensitized flesh.

Undertaker withdrew his mouth completely, leaving Grell’s cock to slap wetly against his stomach. Before the redhead could ask him why he’d stopped, he started to lick and kiss the swollen orbs beneath his un-sated erection. While Grell lay stunned by the generous treatment, Undertaker took his hands off his thighs and he rummaged around in the pockets of his tuxedo. Grell hardly paid attention to it; he was too entranced by the feel of his attentions to his balls. He vaguely heard a popping sound like a cork, and a few moments later, something slippery pressed against his sphincter.   

He barely had time to identify it as a finger, before it slipped gently inside of him. It only went in to the first knuckle, and then it withdrew slowly. Undertaker took his cock into his mouth again, and Grell was treated to two kinds of pleasure. The long finger eased back in, a little deeper this time, before withdrawing again. Grell called his name, deliberately relaxing his body for him as much as possible. Undertaker penetrated deeper this time, pushing his finger all the way in while his mouth distracted from the initial discomfort by sucking him off. Another finger eased in, and Grell arched his back when Undertaker made use of his anatomical expertise to pet the gland inside of him.

"Ah…my silver ghost…my beautiful death god!" Grell turned his head into the pillow and bit down, deciding it was better to shred it than his lips. He moaned heavily into the material and he bucked thoughtlessly into Undertaker’s sucking mouth when he gave a firm thrust with his fingers.

Undertaker released his swollen shaft again, and he caught hold of the hem of Grell’s gown with his teeth. Grell looked down the length of his panting body to see Undertaker grinning at him as he tugged his gown up, exposing his stomach and chest to the cool, night air. His pearly teeth released the material once his nipples were exposed, and he lowered his mouth to the left one. Grell bit the pillow again when Undertaker pinched his nipple between his teeth and flicked his tongue against it. While he continued to prepare him with one hand, the other took over where his mouth left off, stroking the length of his saliva-dampened erection.

The clash of sensations were overwhelming him so quickly, Grell forgot his agreement. He couldn’t stand it…he needed to see Undertaker’s naked body again, needed to feel his skin against his. He began to work on his tie, and he gasped a warning to him when Undertaker glanced up as if he intended to say something.

"I’ve let you play," insisted Grell. "I want to play too."

Undertaker grinned. “Then go ahead, lovely. Don’t ask me to stop, though.”

"I have no intention to!" panted the redhead. "I…oh…ahh!"

He had to bite the pillow again as Undertaker relentlessly massaged that spot inside of him that made him see stars. There was hardly any discomfort now, and Grell knew his body really _was_ ready for him, this time. He announced it with a cry, just as he came in the older reaper’s stroking hand. His hips lifted off the mattress and he tossed his head back. Undertaker kept stimulating inside of him until he was spent and trembling. He shifted positions and he withdrew his fingers from inside of him.

Grell looked up at him with passion-fogged eyes as Undertaker finished removing his tie and dropped it to the floor. Realizing that he’d neglected to finish undressing him, the redhead grinned a little sheepishly.

"You’re far too good with your hands and lips, my pale prince. I completely lost myself in your touch."

Undertaker smiled at him, looking slightly mussed and completely sensual. “And you’re very good at making me feel appreciated, my dear.” He removed his jacket and tossed it away, and then he began to unbutton his shirt. His gaze swept over Grell’s body lovingly, with a hint of territorial satisfaction. “My, my, if you aren’t a sight to make a man’s cock swell.”

Grell swallowed, realizing how he must look, right now. His gown was still bunched up around his chest, exposing his body from there down. His thighs were still spread and his stomach was splattered with his own seed. He struggled into a sitting position to remove the garment, but Undertaker shook his head and stopped him.

"Leave it on…please." His eyes were fairly scalding in their intensity, now. "Just for a while longer. I adore it on you."

Unable to refuse such an elegantly romantic request, Grell let the material fall back down. He didn’t even mind when it stuck to his belly where it touched his libation. They had cleaning services on board that could take care of that. He reached out for his companion when Undertaker’s shirt fluttered to the floor, and he hooked his fingers into the waist of his trousers to tug him closer to the bedside. He looked up at him as he began to kiss and lick the pattern of scars on his torso. Undertaker watched him, his bangs casting a shadow over his glittering eyes as Grell laid claim to each lashing mark with his kisses.

He circled Undertaker’s belly button, admiring the shape of it and the feel of the trim abdominal muscles around it. He slipped both hands around behind his hips, and he gave his ass a squeeze. One good turn deserved another. Grell used his teeth in lieu of his fingers to open the trousers, and he grinned as a button came loose in his mouth. Undertaker didn’t offer the slightest complaint—not even when Grell spit the button away. Instead, he stroked his hair and relaxed compliantly, letting him have his way. Grell took a deep breath when he saw the pink tip of Undertaker’s cock peeking out of the part in the material. He wanted so badly to return the favor and suck on it, but men typically rejected such treatment from him because of his teeth.

Afraid of facing such rejection now—even from someone as fearless as the Undertaker—Grell did the next best thing. He used his fingers in conjunction with his teeth to finish undoing the trousers, and Undertaker stepped out of them when he tugged them down. Now clad only in his ear jewelry and rings, Undertaker kicked aside the forgotten garments. Grell stopped him from climbing onto the bed with him, taking the moment to get a better look at his full nudity. He’d caught a glimpse in the alley when they were escaping Shinigami authorities, and he’d seen and touched some of it in the barn, but this was the first chance he’d had to enjoy it at leisure. He let his eyes feast on the sight of him, and he guessed some people might find the varied, twisting scars decorating his lean form unattractive.

Not so, with Grell. He admired each patch of pearly scar tissue, and he touched that pale, beautiful body with arduous hands. He was perfect, as far as he was concerned. His gaze went to the thick length of his arousal and he grinned again, unable to resist curling his fingers around it to give it a stroke. He looked up at him again and he walked backwards on his knees, gently tugging him by the erection to lead him as if by a leash.

Undertaker took the hint, and he got onto the bed with him. Something smooth and hard rolled over the mattress and struck Grell lightly in the knee, and he looked down to see a corked vial. With a little frown of interest, he held it up and looked at the viscous contents.

"Oil," murmured Undertaker in explanation. "For lubrication, of course. You didn’t really think I conjured it from nowhere, did you?"

Remembering how smooth he’d been about preparing him, Grell smirked. “Then you knew tonight was the night. You were planning this, too.”

Undertaker took the vial and set it further aside, out of the way. “I had hoped,” he agreed. He looked down at the hand slowly stroking the shaft of his arousal, and he grinned. “Have mercy on an old fossil, lovely. Don’t change your mind now.”

"Oh, there isn’t a solitary chance of that," assured Grell.

He released Undertaker’s erection, turned, and pushed against his shoulders hard enough to make him fall back on the bed. Undertaker looked faintly startled for a moment, but he chuckled when Grell straddled his hips.

"So you want to be on top?" Undertaker cupped his hips and lifted up a bit, pressing his groin against Grell’s.

The redhead gasped, and he began to harden again in response. “I want to ride you,” he confessed, “but I want to take you inside of me.”

Undertaker stroked his thighs, gazing up at him with hungry lust. “Whatever you want, little rose. I’m all yours.”

Grell’s heart skipped a beat at those words, and he bent over to kiss him lingeringly. He made a blind grab for the vial of oil at the same time as Undertaker, and they both laughed when their hands collided. Grell let him have it, and Undertaker poured a bit of the oil in the redhead’s hand so that he could lube up his cock. Grell lifted up and he watched him as he slicked the oil over his taut shaft. He took his time with it, admiring the expressions of pleasure on Undertaker’s scarred, gorgeous visage. When the silver reaper groaned a low, breathy warning about taking it too far, Grell stopped playing. He lined himself up with the throbbing length, until he felt the knob pressing against his entrance. He released the erection and he reached out to grab Undertaker’s hands, staring into his eyes as he began to sink down.

The next soft exclamation of pleasure didn’t come from Grell, but from Undertaker. “Oh, love.”

The sound of his husky, unsteady declaration was all the proof Grell needed that his feelings were sincere. He’d never heard his previous partners speak like that to him before, not even in the heat of passion. Undertaker’s eyes were unfocused, and he lay compliantly beneath him, letting Grell have the reins. Grell was secretly thankful for that. As he took more of Undertaker inside of him, he was reminded of how long it had been since he’d had penetrative sex with anyone. He took it slowly at first, a little at a time, until he was filled completely with him.

"Under…taker," gasped the redhead, whimpering at the pleasure.

"Is it hurting you?"

Grell shook his head and bit his lip. “No…oh gods, no. It feels so _fucking good_! Ah…I think…I think I want you to fuck me like a whore, now!”

The older Shinigami laughed breathlessly, and he gave Grell’s hands a squeeze. “Give it a bit of time. When you stop squeezing me so tightly, I’ll take over.”

Oh, how he longed to demand that he take control right now. He could tell by the look in his eyes and the way he’d handled their encounters so far that Undertaker would be very, very good at it. He made a good point, though. As Grell began to rock on top of him, he realized it would be a mistake to get too rough, too fast. As tough as Shinigami bodies were, he didn’t want his first time with Undertaker to get spoiled by injury caused by too much vigor. He kept his hold firm on Undertaker’s hands as he rode him, shifting and thrusting and wriggling as he tried different methods and angles. It all felt fantastic, and Grell hardened completely within moments.

After a little while, Undertaker began to move beneath him. He watched Grell carefully, his lips parted and gasping as he started matching his thrusts. When Grell moaned in pleasure and shut his eyes, Undertaker released his hands and he cupped his hips.

"Lift up, darling," urged the ancient huskily.

Grell whined a protest when Undertaker lifted him easily, and his cock slid out of his body. Undertaker turned him around and bent him over, and Grell didn’t have the opportunity to miss his presence for very long. He cried out in bliss as Undertaker lined himself up behind him, pushed his gown up and entered him again with one smooth, deep stroke. It pushed in at just the right angle, and Grell swore he went cross-eyed for a moment from the pleasure. Undertaker’s hand reached under his hips to fondle his groin, and he again left his body.

"What are you…doing?" demanded Grell, looking over his shoulder at his looming companion.

Undertaker grinned. “I’m loving you.”

His cock pressed into him again, and Grell’s breath expulsed in a rush as it drove in all the way. Undertaker held it there, and he rocked from side to side a little. He gripped the redhead’s erection firmly and he pulled his hair to one side to speak into his ear.

"How’s that, love? Am I still filling you a bit too deeply?" He withdrew again, making Grell want to sob with frustration. "You miss me when I leave you?"

"Y-yes!" He moaned desperately, wiggling his ass against him when Undertaker again positioned himself and rubbed the head of his cock against his entrance. "I miss you. Stop teasing me and give it to me, damn you!"

Undertaker gave a breathless laugh, and he sank in just past the tip. He stopped fondling him to grip his hips when Grell tried to change positions and take back control. “Now, now, my sweet bride,” admonished the ancient, “you should ask more nicely.”

Grell gnashed his teeth in agitation, and he forced himself to restrain the fierce demands welling in his throat. His acting talents proved to be his savior. “Please, my love,” he said in a soft, submissive moan. “Please fuck me.”

Evidently, it was good enough for Undertaker. He filled him the rest of the way, nudging in firmly and drawing another groan of delight from Grell. He began to pump his hips, satisfied that he was well-adjusted for him. He bent over him and he kissed him on the ear as he took him, his thrusts growing steadily faster and stronger with each moment.

"So lovely," Undertaker gasped. "So pink, your blush."

Grell cried out loudly as the next thrust nearly pushed him onto his face. His hands curled into fists over the bedding and he stared blankly at the wall, hardly able to see straight in his ecstasy. Undertaker’s hips snapped with skill, rolling smoothly with his efforts. He was hitting that spot each time, dragging helpless cries from Grell until they became shouts. He stopped suddenly, just when Grell was on the very brink of another orgasm. He rested his sweating forehead against Grell’s shoulder, and he spoke in a tense voice.

"Not yet, Grell. Not just yet. I don’t want it to end so soon. Wait for me, love. Just a bit longer."

_~Merciful death, is he serious?~_

He could tell by the near desperation in Undertaker’s voice and the tension in his powerful, lean form that he was, though. Grell couldn’t fault him for wanting to make it last. In fact, he found it incredibly flattering and romantic. He smiled, even as he struggled to calm his raging lust. He sighed in disappointment when Undertaker _again_ withdrew from him, but he didn’t complain. Undertaker urged him to straighten up and raise his arms over his head, and he lifted his gown up and off of him. Now that he was naked, Undertaker flipped him onto his back and guided his thighs up and apart.

"Now, my dear," said Undertaker in a low, dulcet voice, "I’ll finish what I began."

Grell embraced him and angled his pelvis readily; just as happy with the missionary position as the others they had tried. He stared up at his lover as Undertaker entered him again, and he was reminded of the half-forgotten dream he’d had about him, when he first began to realize he had feelings for him. He gasped and moaned as Undertaker began to move steadily. He didn’t slam into him the way he’d begun to do in the other position. He was passionate, but gentle with him. He thrust home with smooth precision each time, and he began to kiss his lips, his jaw and his throat.

Grell cupped Undertaker’s flexing bottom, gasping and panting encouragement. Undertaker held his eyes when he wasn’t kissing him, or he watched the expressions flit over his face as if savoring every one of them. Undertaker himself looked stunning to Grell, in the heat of passion. The ancient’s thrusts began to quicken again with rising excitement, but he still maintained eye contact, his kisses were loving and tender, and he didn’t get rough with him. Grell began to peak again, and he dug his fingernails into his lover’s ass and moaned his name.

"I’m coming," he warned. "Oh…I c-can’t hold it back, this time!"

"Don’t try," encouraged Undertaker tensely.

He stared down at him, his expression tensing up along with his body as he too reached completion. It happened for both of them at almost the same time, and for a brief moment, Grell got the distinct feeling that he’d _done this_ before… _with Undertaker_. He remembered seeing his expression do that, remembered feeling him inside—but not in the same place.

 

* * *

Undertaker experienced the phenomenon as well, but unlike his moaning, blushing lover, he saw a different pair of eyes looking up at him—but the same soul. He saw _her_. As he came hard and fast inside of Grell Sutcliff, he knew he had made love to this soul more than once before, but in a different body.

"Oh, my dear," he murmured, stunned. He swallowed as the moment ended and the glimpse of human eyes faded. He hadn’t imagined it, and he could tell by the look in Grell’s eyes that he’d experienced a flash of memory, too.

Both of them lay spent, trembling and bewildered by the connection they’d made. Grell didn’t understand it in the slightest, of course, and he made it known as soon as he caught his breath to speak.

"What _was_ that?” demanded the redhead. “We’ve done this before, but how? I think I would have remembered having sex with you…especially as bloody _good_ as you are.”

Undertaker lowered his mouth to his to kiss him soothingly. “Shh, calmly. I will try to explain—though I’m just as gobsmacked as you are.”

Grell stared up at him, seeing something in his face that obviously worried him. He reached up and stroked Undertaker’s hanging bangs, tucking them behind his ears. “What was it, then? How can I remember a time when we did this before? It’s gone now, but it was so vivid!”

"That’s because you weren’t meant to recall it." Undertaker sighed, his heart aching with the memories, yet hopeful of the possibilities. "I need to be certain. What year did you awake as a new reaper? Can you recall that for me?"

Grell considered it. “It must have been…1795, I think. Yes, I’m sure of it. It was sometime in March.”

Undertaker’s heart slammed almost painfully in his ribcage. “One year after she passed. My Lillian.” He had no doubt, now. The personality, the passion, the love for theater…even the teeth fit, when he considered some of the things he’d discussed with her while she was alive. His assessment of Grell’s reaper age had been a bit off, but he never would have _dreamed_ he was Lillian reborn.

"That isn’t helping me," Grell insisted, caressing his back. "Undertaker, what does it _mean_?”

He kissed him again, tenderly. “It means that although I knew that you were a woman before you were reborn as a Shinigami, I had no idea I actually _knew_ you, before. People aren’t meant to see bits of previous lives, except in vague dreams while they sleep. Some only get one life, while others are ‘recycled’ back into humanity at a later date, or reborn as Shinigami to serve the Divine.”

"Exactly how many lives have I had, then?"

Undertaker smiled and stared into his eyes. “Your soul has lived in at least three bodies, that I can see. I’m afraid I can’t give you more details, except to tell you that I loved you before you were Grell Sutcliff.”

"We were lovers?" Grell looked rapt and shocked at the same time.

"Yes. Maybe it was foolish on my part to allow such feelings for a human, and maybe I should even be telling you this much, but it’s true."

Grell lowered his gaze. “Did we have children?”

Undertaker shook his head. “No, lovely. I’m just as sterile as other reapers.”

"Right," sighed Grell. "But…how did we meet? What did I do for a living? How did I die?"

Undertaker shook his head, and he rolled off of him and onto his side. He pulled Grell into his embrace and he shut his eyes as he breathed in his scent. “I can’t tell you that, love. You shouldn’t even know _this_ much.”

"But that’s not fair!" Grell pouted. "Where is the harm in telling me who I was, or how you fell in love with me?"

Undertaker gave him a pained smile, now. “I can tell you this: you were an actress, and when I saw you singing on the stage and listened to your voice singing so passionately, I couldn’t resist watching over you. You were as feisty and passionate as you are now, and you put me in my place when I got too full of myself. Human lives are fleeting, though, and you were no exception.”

Undertaker caressed Grell’s face, studying it. “Who you were in the past wasn’t what drew me to you, though. I want you to understand that. I had no idea you were my Lillian, before tonight.”

Grell swallowed, visibly moved. “I didn’t know, either. Couldn’t I just have a peek at the records in the library, though?”

"Not possible," answered Undertaker. "When souls are reborn, any cinematic records collected on them are absorbed in the process."

"Then what happens to all of the events they lived through?" persisted Grell. He rubbed Undertaker’s back. "Do they just get…erased?"

"Not entirely," assured the ancient. "The most important bits are left behind. It’s blocked off from the owner, though—accessible through dreams and subconscious like I said, but not ordinarily available when awake. They started doing it that way when they realized past life memories were buggering up the works in people’s present minds. It caused madness in a good deal of ‘reborns’ before they finally figured out that mortals weren’t meant to recall previous lifetimes."

"I never knew all this," sighed Grell. "I suppose I understand why you’re so reluctant to part with details."

"Please, just put it out of your mind," urged Undertaker softly. "You’ve been living as a reaper for this long, and you can’t go back to that life."

Grell didn’t answer immediately, but then he looked at Undertaker’s sincere face, and his visage softened. “Very well. Between that heavenly lovemaking and the vision, I think I’m worn out for the night.”

"Good. Sleep well." Undertaker stroked his hair affectionately. His head warned him not to let himself fall so far, so fast, but his heart was ignoring it. Grell stirred in his arms again, and Undertaker braced himself when he spoke his name in a sleepy, questioning tone.

"Undertaker?"

He gave him a little squeeze. “Hmm?”

"I…I do love you. Not because I apparently did in a past life, either."

Undertaker smiled broadly, insanely happy with the gentle, sincere declaration. “And I love you, my dear.”

 

* * *

Sometime after Midnight when Grell was fast asleep, Undertaker slipped into a robe, collected his chain of lockets, and snuck quietly out to the private balcony connected to their cabin. He stared out at the cool, black waters of the ocean and the half-moon hanging above it. He’d been drawn to Ciel’s grandmother because she reminded him so much of Lillian, but she never fell for his charms. He smirked, thinking it was probably for the best. Some part of him had tried to fill the void by seeking companionship with people that reminded him of her—including Claudia.  

He looked down at his locket belt, and he chose one in particular—one that he’d left un-engraved. He kissed it and he watched the cinematic snippet replay when it opened up.

_"You…came. I knew…you would come."_

_"Yes, my love. I came. It won’t be long now."_

_A weak, blood-stained smile appeared on her lips. “How many…actresses can say…they’ve loved Death?”_

_"More than you would imagine," he answered seriously, lifting her frail hand to his lips. "But none can say he loved them back, save you."_

_"Those…whores."_

_He laughed, but it was a broken sound. “You know I’ve been with no-one else, since you.”_

_She smirked up at him, her blood steadily pooling around her in the street. “Still…I think I would like to…pretend you were only mine.”_

_"But I am," he promised her. "I’ll never forget you."_

_"So tired," she said. "Will we…meet again?"_

_"Eventually, I think. Until that day comes, I’ll keep you close."_

_He hunched over her prone form, and he kissed her bloody lips. Her breath halted as he did so, and a peculiar, uncommon sound of grief escaped his throat. He made the tiniest cut with his Scythe, and he collected a small keepsake to take with him, and the scene ended._

Undertaker still recalled that dreadful night like it was only yesterday. An active Shinigami officer arrived just moments after he’d collected his treasure, and Undertaker was forced to retreat before he got discovered. Taking bits of those records for his personal use was quite illegal, and he hadn’t wanted to risk discovery before he’d finished taking his revenge. He killed the one responsible for killing her himself, and he used the connections he still had back then to cover it up.

Undertaker closed the locket, and he snapped it off of the chain. He looked up at the sky with contemplative eyes. Whether it was by fate or design, he had her back again. He could finally let go of his grief. He opened his hand, stared at the little silver locket, and then he drew back and hurled it as far out into the water as he could—which was quite a ways, given Shinigami strength.

Undertaker drew a deep breath and wiped his eyes off with the sleeve of his robe, before turning around to go back inside.

 

* * *

-To be continued


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

William took a deep breath as he stepped off the elevator to the top floor. Today, they would be graced with the presence of someone from Senior Management. They were the ones who relayed the will of the Divine powers to the rest of Shinigami society, and they rarely bothered to descend to the lower planes to interact in person. He was quickly losing his penchant for being unshakable, under all of this insanity. He paused by a window to have a quick look at his reflection, combing a stray lock of hair back into place with his fingers and checking his tie.

"Let’s get this over with," he murmured, fully expecting a lecture on poor management technique, at the very least.

There was also the chance that he could be facing demotion and replacement for his failure to prevent Undertaker’s escape on his watch. Even worse than that, there was also the possibility that he could be entering this boardroom not to attend a meeting, but to face a jury of his peers for further questioning. He might even find himself incarcerated, if they had any reason to believe he had a part in Undertaker’s break out.

Trying to push all of the concerns and doubts aside, he forced his feet into motion and he walked the length of the long, immaculate hallway to the boardroom door. Every step felt like a countdown to his doom, and he was annoyed to feel himself break into a sweat. Left…right…left…right. Was this how it felt for Undertaker, when they brought him in after his capture? William couldn’t imagine him feeling this kind of anxiety at the thought of facing Shinigami justice, though. Undertaker was either too ancient or too mad to fear such a thing—or perhaps it was both.

The big double-doors at the end of the hallway opened up, and William impulsively clutched the handle of his scythe as someone came out, backlit by the bright lights inside. He recognized him immediately, and he frowned when met him halfway. Lawrence Anderson was the director of the Glasses Department. He was a tall, refined gentleman with gray wings in his dark hair, a neatly trimmed mustache and a dignified mannerism. A lot of the younger generations of reapers referred to him as “Pops” or, more respectfully, “Father”. He was probably the only active duty Shinigami alive that could match or even exceed Undertaker for age, but nobody knew exactly how old he was. Unlike the Undertaker, Anderson bore the effects of aging on his face, body and hair, making him appear as a man in his fifties. His nails, however, were as clear as any of the younger Shinigami. 

"Director Anderson," greeted William with a respectful bow.

"Supervisor Spears." Anderson returned the bow. "I’m afraid the meeting has been cancelled."

"May I inquire as to why?" William fell into step with him as the older Shinigami began to walk toward the elevators.

"The Senior Management representative couldn’t make it," explained Lawrence. "They have bigger things to concern them, right now. How is the search for Undertaker going?"

"We’ve sent agents to investigate all possible routes out of London, and there has been a possible sighting on one ship bound for America." William considered the phone call he’d gotten that morning, when he’d been informed of the board meeting. "Unfortunately, they’ve ordered me to recall half of my people from the search, so it may take quite a bit longer to track down and detain the fugitive."

There was a sudden crack of thunder outside, and both reapers looked out the wide-paned windows at the sky.

"I wouldn’t worry overmuch about that," Anderson said ominously. "While finding Undertaker is still important, I don’t believe it is the organization’s top priority, any longer."

 

* * *

Grell stopped asking for more details about his previous life when it became obvious to him that Undertaker wasn’t going to part with them. After some reflection, he decided he really wasn’t all that desperate to know, after all. Learning of his previous human origins answered some of the questions he’d been harboring about himself since as long as he could recall. In truth, the thought of learning too much frightened him a bit. He didn’t want to dwell on what he’d lost; he wanted to concentrate on what he had now.

Unfortunately, what he presently had now was quite precarious. Dispatch wasn’t going to just give up, now that they’d made it out of England. Further disguise would be necessary, if they were to continue shaking their pursuit. He refused to let Undertaker touch his glorious, silver locks, but he could easily bundle them up underneath the top hats he favored. As for Grell, he’d mastered the ability to disguise the color of his hair and eyes through concentration alone. He demonstrated as much to his lover as they prepared to leave the privacy of their cabin for a dance, on the third day of their trip.

Undertaker frowned at Grell’s new hair color, while the younger reaper added some finishing touches to his appearance and checked his emerald earrings. Noticing the unhappy look on his companion’s face, Grell furrowed his brows at him. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like the style?”

"The style is fine," answered Undertaker with a sigh. He reached out to tweak an artfully loose, chocolate colored spiral, hanging free from the coils. "I just prefer the red on you."

Grell smiled at him. “That’s so very sweet of you, but we agreed that we should improve our disguises before we reach New Orleans. They’ll be looking for us all over, and if I know Will, he’s already got people tracking every ship that’s left London’s harbor since we escaped. You said yourself that I stand out like a bloodstain.”

He bent over and lifted his skirts to tighten the laces on his boots. “In fact, I’m surprised we haven’t already had a Dispatch encounter on this ship. I half expect them to send someone to investigate before we even reach coastal waters.” Attempting to use portals to travel long distances themselves was out of the question, as it would require traversing the Shinigami realm in between.

Undertaker smirked. “Can’t say I blame them for that, considering what happened the last time they sent people to investigate a ship with me on it.”

Grell snorted. “You’re really proud of yourself for that mess, aren’t you?”

Undertaker shrugged. “Things didn’t go quite as I planned, but it worked out for me in the end.”

Grell straightened up again and turned to face him. “How? You’re a fugitive now. A rootless, wandering fugitive!”

Undertaker put his arms around him and smiled down at him. “Ah, but I have _you_ now, my dear. If my little experiment hadn’t gone sour, that might not have happened.”

Grell smiled back. “And I might have ended up with William, after all.”

Undertaker’s expression immediately fell. “I don’t care much for that thought.”

"Does it make you jealous, hmm?" Grell cuddled up to him, and he slid his fingers through the lustrous curtain of silver hair falling down the taller reaper’s back.

Undertaker’s grin held, but there was a warning flash in his eyes from beneath his feathered bangs. “I don’t mind your harmless flirtations, lovely. I’ve been known to practice a bit of flirty behavior myself, from time to time. With that one though, it’s different. You’ve got a flame for him, and I don’t like the way he treated you.”

"He isn’t a threat to you," promised Grell. He ran his free hand over Undertaker’s chest, tracing the buttons on his vest before caressing the scar around his pale throat. "I actually had a chance with him recently, and I turned it down because all I could think of was a certain mad, old lunatic in lockup."

Undertaker’s grin faltered. “Recently? How recently might that be, my dear?”

Realizing he was figuratively tossing William over thin ice—with very deep water underneath—Grell practiced rare common sense and resisted the urge to tease. “Before you and I were…established. You were still in custody, and I had just learned what they planned to do to you. Both of us were very stressed, and I suppose William finally snapped. The minute he kissed me though, I knew he wasn’t for me. Thanks a lot for that, by the way. I’ve been waiting for a chance with him for decades, but then _you_ came crashing into my life and changed everything.”

Undertaker began to chuckle with delight, and he gave him a squeeze. “Well, there you have it. I’ve got my jealous side too.”

"Do you feel better?" With Undertaker, it was sometimes hard to tell. He usually found reasons to laugh, even when he wasn’t happy.

Undertaker nodded, and his hair fell forward to cover his eyes as he lowered his head to give him a kiss. “Thank you for humoring this old reaper’s petty insecurities.”

Grell cupped the back of his head to prevent him from withdrawing his lips, and he instigated another kiss—deeper, this time. Undertaker backed him up against the wall, his tongue easing into his mouth seductively as he trapped him there. Grell certainly had no objections, and he moaned with wanton delight as his skirts were pulled up and he was lifted. He encircled Undertaker’s waist with his stocking-clad legs as the taller man supported his bottom and held him in place. He could feel Undertaker’s stiffness grinding against his through the barrier of the trousers and frilly panties, and he forgot all about their plans to go dancing.

 

* * *

Far beneath the upper decks in the cargo hold, a rift appeared and five Shinigami officers stepped out of it. Leading them was Eric Slingby, and with him was his partner Alan. Ronald came out after them with Thomas and Simon flanking him.  Ronald flinched with a drop of water hit his head, and he looked up at the leak in the ceiling accusingly.

"Hmph. Looks like they still have a ways to go before they completely waterproof these things." He combed his fingers through his feathered blond hair and stepped away to avoid another watery mishap. 

"Everyone stay sharp," advised Eric. "We still have two other ships to investigate after this, so be fast, efficient and above all, be _careful._ Ron, do you still have the document?”

Ronald retrieved the item from his pocket and he nodded. “Yeah. If this ‘Jonathon Cambridge’ and his wife are Undertaker and Grell, they could be in cabin A-37.” He shrugged and folded the paper back up, stuffing it back into his pocket. “Nothing says they’re actually in their room if it’s them, though.”

"Regardless, you check there," instructed Eric. "Simon, you check the engine room and Thomas, you search B-deck. Alan and I will investigate the upper and promenade decks, respectively."

"Someone’s coming," warned Alan. "Vanish!"

They cloaked themselves from mortal sight and waited silently as a crewman passed by their hiding place near some stacked crates. He carried a lantern to see with and he looked around in an assessing manner. He noticed the leak in the ceiling, and he muttered something as he made a mental note of it. He inspected the area for a few moments and then he finally left. The five Dispatch officers waited until he was up the stairs and gone, before dropping their veils.

"Right, let’s get this over with," Ron said. "Maybe if I find them first, I can talk some sense into—"

"No."

Ronald looked at Eric with a frown, and the older reaper elaborated. “None of us are to engage the fugitive or Sutcliff by ourselves; not even to talk. If you spot either of them, use your communicators to contact the rest of the team. If we _do_ find them aboard this ship, we need to contact Headquarters immediately and send for backup. Don’t forget the mess Undertaker made when we first brought him in, and he’s got Grell at his side, now.”

Alan nodded. “And even though he can be…eccentric…Grell isn’t known to hold back in a fight.”

Ronald grimaced. “Yeah. Senpai always told me not to hesitate or doubt, because if you do, it leaves you open. Even so, I don’t think he’d hurt me—not unless I attacked him first.”

"Maybe he wouldn’t," reasoned Simon, "but what about Undertaker? He may cut first and ask questions later."

"He’s right," agreed Alan, patting Ronald on the shoulder sympathetically. "I know you don’t want to betray Grell, but he betrayed the organization first. Nobody wants to see him killed. That’s why we’ve got to do everything by the book and bring them in fast."

"We still don’t know that he betrayed the organization," insisted Ronald. "He might not have gone willingly."

Eric gave him a patiently exasperated look. “Ronnie, when have you ever known Grell to go along with anything he didn’t want to do?”

Ronald shrugged. There was no denying that Grell wasn’t exactly the damsel in distress type, and the chemistry between him and Undertaker was pretty obvious to anyone that saw them interact together. Even when they were fighting him on Campania, Ronald could sense his Senpai’s attraction to the ancient reaper.

"Fine," he huffed. "But don’t expect me to raise my scythe against Sutcliff Senpai, if we do find them!"

Eric and Alan looked at each other, and the older of the two scratched the thin beard growth on his chin in thought before answering. A hint of a Scottish brogue snuck into his accent, as usually happened when he addressed those closest to him. “Actually, we’re countin’ on him feeling th’ same way about you. Let’s just focus on getting this done wi’ as little bloodshed or death as possible. Everyone check your communicators an’ then split up to your appointed areas. We’ll meet on the sun deck when we’ve given the entire ship a clean sweep.”

 

* * *

Ronald slipped past security in the upper class accommodations quite easily, thanks to the cloaking ability he shared with others of his race. Unfortunately, Shinigami couldn’t count on that ability to make them undetectable to others of their kind. He could sense that another reaper had been down this way as he traversed the A deck halls, but there had been a death aboard this ship when it was on its way to England. What he sensed could simply be residual from the agent sent to collect the cinematic record of the deceased.

People stared at him a bit as they passed by their curious gazes sweeping over his work suit. He paid it no mind. He rarely bothered changing into something to reflect the time period on this realm, when he visited it. Humans generally assumed he was foreign when they saw his hairstyle and clothing. He finally located the cabin number from the docket and he looked around, scratching his head.

"Well, this is it, but what do I do _now_?”

He couldn’t just knock on the door. He looked at the round porthole window in the hallway, and he considered cloaking himself again and trying to sneak a peak inside the cabin from _outside_ the ship. It would be slippery and hard to pinpoint the right window, but he should be able to manage it without falling overboard.

He started to turn away and cloak himself again for the endeavor, but then he heard something that made him stop in his tracks and go slack-jawed.

"Oooh…ahh! Don’t stop, you gorgeous hunk of a death god!"

Recognizing his mentor’s enthusiastic cries, Ronald immediately planted his ear against the door, his lips rounding in a little “o” of intrigue. He could hear something squeaking rhythmically, and there was a deeper, rougher male voice mingling with Grell’s.

"Mm, you like that, do you? How about… _this_?”

Ronald blinked and put a hand over his mouth to avoid blurting: “What?”

"Haa… _aaahhh! Under…takerrr!_ ”

Grell’s cries reached a fevered pitch of delight, leaving little doubt that he was close to reaching completion. The squeaking and creaking reached a frenzied level, and the second voice groaned with what Ron could only describe as intense satisfaction.

Blushing now, the young reaper gulped and backed away from the door. If there was any doubt that Grell was willingly with Undertaker before, it was gone now. He sighed. He had a duty to contact his companions and let them know they were here, but he wanted to protect Grell’s dignity, too.

There was really only one solution he could think of. He left the area and made his way up to the top decks, where he was supposed to meet up with his companions once they finished searching the rest of the ship.

 

* * *

"Neither of us found anything," announced Simon when he and Thomas met up with Eric and Alan on the sun deck. "What about you?"

Alan tugged a loose string on his blazer and he sighed, shaking his head. “I kept picking up traces of Shinigami energy here and there, but it’s impossible to know if it came from our fugitives or some other reaper. Wasn’t there a collection on this ship earlier this month?”

"Yes there was," called Ronald’s voice from across the deck. They turned to see him approach with a glass of whiskey in one hand, and he looked oddly traumatized. "And don’t call Sutcliff Senpai a ‘fugitive’. We don’t know his side of the story yet, and even if he’s with him here of his own choice, he might not have started out that way."

Alan’s brows shot up. “They’re here? You’ve found them?”

Ronald nodded, downed the rest of his drink and tossed the glass carelessly over his shoulder. It sailed through the air and struck a hapless waiter on the back of the head, knocking him out cold. Ronald winced and looked behind him at the sounds of shock and surprise from witnessing staff and passengers, but it happened so fast that nobody could tell where the glass had come from. He shrugged and returned his attention to his companions.

"Yeah, they’re here in the cabin I checked."

"Why dinnae ya contact us right away?" Eric thundered. "We need tae call this in right away and—"

"Wait," begged Ronald, stopping him as he reached for his communicator. "Not yet, okay?"

"Ronald, we can’t give them the chance to escape," warned Alan before his partner could admonish him. "We know you care about Grell and none of us wants to see him hurt, but who would you rather see bring him in; us or one of the other squads?"

"That isn’t the problem," Ronald insisted. "The problem is they’re…uh…occupied, if you know what I mean. It’s not a good idea for anyone to go barging in there."

"What do you mean, ‘they’re occu’—oh." Alan answered his own question with a grin, before he even finished the question. "I get it."

"Well if they’re ‘busy’ with each other, they’re probably going to be too preoccupied to react right away if we move in on them," suggested Thomas.

Eric cleared his throat and fought a grin as well. “Er, well, that could give us a tactical advantage, at least.”

Ronald shook his head. “No, it really wouldn’t. You don’t know Grell the way I do. If you guys break up his ‘nookie time’ the only advantage you’re going to have is the ability to piss through your noses for the rest of your lives.”

Simon sniffed and rubbed his nose, while Eric raised his brows and smirked. “Hmm, good point. Still, we’ve got a job to do.”

"Just wait," insisted Ron. "Look, they don’t know we’re here right now."

"How can you be so sure of that?" Alan looked around warily, obviously on the verge of manifesting his scythe.

Ronald smirked. “Oh, trust me. From what I heard, those two don’t even know anyone else _exists_.”

Eric and Alan glanced at each other, and the latter blushed a little. “I suppose I can believe that,” Eric said softly, “but I still have to call it in. If they aren’t finished by the time our backup gets here, it’s just too bad.”

Ronald took a deep breath, and he snatched a glass of wine off the tray of a passing waiter. “Oh boy,” he sighed, before downing the refreshment.

 

* * *

Two more powerful thrusts finished him, and Undertaker collapsed on top of his amorous companion. He bowed his head over him, letting his hair fall forward to drape over them both. He smiled with lazy satisfaction and he closed the distance between their lips, kissing Grell with sated, unhurried sensuality.

"I’d take that over a dance, any day," he announced breathlessly between kisses. "You, my sweet rose, are…are…" He trailed off with a frown, stiffening.

Grell was oblivious to his sudden tension at first, blissfully unaware of anything beyond the afterglow. He rubbed Undertaker’s back, his nails gliding over the shirt he still wore. He frowned and he poked a finger through the rip he’d created on the garment, during his orgasm. Undertaker hardly felt the sting when his questing finger stroked against the scratches he’d left behind.

"Oh, I drew blood," observed Grell. He gave Undertaker’s waist a squeeze with his thighs—still covered in stockings. He looked up at the older reaper as he brought his stained finger to his lips and sucked the red substance off of it. "I’ll try to be more gentle next time, darling. Undertaker? Why do you look like you’ve been hit over the—"

Undertaker pressed two fingers against Grell’s lips abruptly, warning him to silence. He eased his weight off of him, withdrawing from his body with care. “Do you feel it?”

Grell sighed with annoyance. “The only thing I feel is you leaving me, and I don’t like it.”

For once, Undertaker didn’t smile at his word usage or indulge him. He rolled off of him completely and he got up. Rather than straighten his clothes, he began to remove them.

"Best get ready," advised Undertaker. "We aren’t the only reapers on this ship, anymore."

Grell stared at him as he opened his shirt and dropped it to the floor. “And you’re going to intimidate them the old Celtic way?” He smirked openly at Undertaker’s groin as the pants came off next, exposing his sated endowments. “Hmm, not a bad idea.”

That got a laugh from him. “No, silly darling. I’m getting properly attired for the occasion.”

He demonstrated his point by calling his preferred battle outfit into existence, letting it sheath his body familiarly. His scythe soon followed.

Grell sighed. “I do love all of that leather and those straps, but I think I would have liked to see a nude Undertaker in a fight.”

"Some other time, perhaps," said Undertaker with a grin. He retrieved his outer garments from the chest and he nodded at Grell as he slipped them on, his expression going sober again. "Tidy yourself up and get ready, unless you’d rather stay here and wait for me."

Grell took the older reaper’s offered hand and he got out of the bed. “Don’t even suggest I sit here and wait. I’m not going to allow them to take my beautiful lunatic away from me.”

 

* * *

"Oh, buggergy bugger!" Ronald shook the device ineffectively and he sighed. He looked at Alan and shrugged. "It’s no good. I can reach you guys, but I can’t get through to the other side."

Alan looked at Eric inquiringly. “Eric?”

The older Shinigami took his phone away from his ear and shook his head. “It’s the same here. It looks like none of us can ring Headquarters.”

"Maybe it’s because we’re at sea," suggested Thomas with a look around at the watery horizon.

"I don’t think so," answered Ronald with a frown. "Senpai and I were able to call for help when the Campania went down. Something else is cramming up the works."

"Then we have no choice but to try and apprehend the fugitives ourselves," sighed Eric. "We shouldn’t attempt it in the lower decks, though. It’s too narrow to fight in there, and we’ll just end up cutting the ship apart around us. At least if we confront them on the upper deck, there’s less chance of the structure getting severely damaged."

Alan looked around, frowning. “But there’s still the chance of people getting hurt or killed.”

"There’s nothing we can do about that," insisted Eric. "Accidental loss of human life in pursuit of a felon is acceptable, as stated in our mission statement. Try to avoid harming anyone, but don’t let it get in the way of your duties. We’ll need to pair up and patrol the ship. Stay in contact and don’t confront them without the rest of us unless there’s no other choice."

"Sounds reasonable enough," sighed Ronald. "So who’s going where with who? There’s five of us, so it doesn’t split up evenly."

Eric watched him as he thought of it. “You keep watch on the boat deck, to make sure they don’t try to pinch a lifeboat and jump ship.”

"Isn’t it dangerous to leave him without a partner?" Alan gestured at Ronald—who had just snagged another glass of wine from a passing waiter.

"If anyone is safe without a partner, it’s him," reasoned Eric seriously. "I think Sutcliff would at least try to protect him. However, you are _not_ to engage them if you see them, Knox. Understand?”

"Yeah, yeah." Ronald started to take a drink from his wine, but Eric snatched it out of his hand and dumped it out.

"And stay sober," admonished the Scotsman. "Last thing we need right now is you stumbling around drunk. This isn’t a party."

"Okay," huffed Ronald. "You go do your thing and I’ll go do mine." He walked away from the group, stumbling a little.

Eric shook his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Death help us all.”

 

* * *

"Why did it have to come to this?" wondered Ronald. He took a swig from the glass of whiskey he’d procured despite Eric’s instructions, and he sighed forlornly, leaning against the rail. William would be on his case in a flash, if he saw him drinking on the job like this. He felt like he needed it, though. The situation sucked too bad to stay sober.

"Hmph…maybe I’ve got some Irish in me," mused the blond with look at the half-empty tumbler in his hand. Stereotypes aside, he was beginning to understand that he could be developing a problem.

Remembering his purpose, he pushed away from the railing and began to walk the deck, keeping an eye on the lifeboats. He saw a lady in a pretty, green satin dress with white lace looking one of the boats over, and he grinned. Flirting was part of his nature, and despite his relationship with his boss, he still enjoyed doing it with the fairer sex. He approached her with buzzed confidence, appreciating her slender waist and the rich brown color of her coiled hair. He dropped his veil so that she could see him when he spoke to her.

"Hullo there," greeted Ronald. "Checking out the lifeboats, are you? I wouldn’t worry; they’re all pretty solid."

She gasped and turned away from him. “I…the sea makes me nervous,” she said in a high-pitched, strained voice. “Please excuse me, sir. I must…return to my husband’s side.”

Something struck Ronald as odd about her, and he frowned. “Now, why would he let a pretty little thing like you out of his sight, anyhow?” He tried to get a glimpse of her face, but she kept turning away from him.

"I needed fresh air," she excused, her voice cracking slightly. She laid a white-gloved hand against her lower abdomen. "I’m with child, you see."

"Oh." Ron blushed a little, embarrassed for hitting on a preggy. "Wow, you really shouldn’t be out here alone, then. Why don’t you let me escort you back to your husband?"

Lacking his usual tact due to his buzz, Ronald tried to slip his arm through hers. She turned to look at him with a sigh, and he found himself staring as her smile broadened to reveal a mouth full of pointed teeth. She was a lovely little thing, if it weren’t for those choppers.

"Oh, Ronnie," she said in Grell Sutcliff’s voice. "You couldn’t just leave well enough alone, could you? You’re far too young for me, sweetheart."

Although they had been expecting Grell to be disguised and the dress really shouldn’t have surprised him, Ronald nonetheless found himself flabbergasted. “S-S-Senpai?”

Something struck him in the back of the head, and the world went black.

 

* * *

"Cargo and B deck is clear," announced Simon over the communication device.

"Then focus on B and A deck," answered Eric. "The fugitives weren’t in their room, and one of ‘em is bound to have sensed our presence by now. Alan and I will work our way up to the promenade to patrol there again."

"You know, I have to wonder," Alan said when Eric ended the call to their assistants, "how did Undertaker manage to cloak his nature so thoroughly, over the years? Only upper management knew who he really was, and they kept it to themselves. Why didn’t Sutcliff or Ronald or _any_ reaper that came into contact with him sense what he was, until he revealed himself?”

"The man has been around for long enough to find loopholes the rest of us would miss," reasoned Eric, concentrating on dialing another number. "That’s why we have to be so bloody careful."

Alan lowered his gaze. “It just makes me wonder sometimes if he could be a little _more_ than we are.”

Eric frowned at him. “What do ya mean?”

"Have you ever met another reaper with nails like his?" pressed Alan. "I haven’t. They say it’s because of his age, but not even the oldest Shinigami I know have black nails. That’s usually the mark of a demon."

Eric smirked. “So you’re sayin’ that Undertaker is part demon?”

Alan shrugged. “Who knows? I just think with the trouble we’re going through to force him into service again, and all of these little differences, there’s more to him than there is to us.”

"Maybe it’s jus’ ‘cause he was ne’er a human being, an’ he wasnae born of reaper parents, either," reasoned Eric. "He’s an ‘undiluted’ Shinigami; maybe tha only one left."

Alan grimaced. “But wouldn’t that mean—”

"Dammit, Ronnie isn’t responding." Eric glared balefully at the device in his hand, as if it were all its fault.

Alan left off the speculations, for now. “He’s probably just slacking off. His heart isn’t really into this mission.”

"Well, tha kid’s going tae get himself killed, if he doesn’t take this seriously." Eric put his phone away and took Alan’s hand. "Come on, let’s go an’ check on him."

Alan nodded, and as they made their way to the boat deck, he prudently chose to contact the rest of their companions and tell them to meet up with them, just in case.

 

* * *

They searched the boat deck in a clockwise direction, once they met up with Simon and Thomas. The only physical evidence they found that Ronald had been there was the cracked liquor glass on the starboard side deck. There were faint spirit traces of Shinigami presence all over, but there was no way to know if it was all from Ronald or someone else. Eric tried again to reach Headquarters while they searched, but there was no getting through to them.

"It’s like someone cut the line," he mused. "I’m really not liking this."

"Can Undertaker do that?" asked Thomas, wide-eyed at the possibility.

"Of course not," Alan said. "If he could break Dispatch communications so easily, we never would have caught him to begin with."

"Yes, let’s not get paranoid," advised Eric. "Whatever’s going on with our connection to the other side is a separate issue. Right now, we need to concentrate on finding—"

Eric gasped in shocked pain as something abruptly stabbed him from above, penetrating his shoulder just deeply enough to make blood spurt and allow a single strand of his cinematic record to escape. For a moment, images of him and Alan in a very private, very compromising position were displayed for all of them to see, and he found that more upsetting than the injury. He clasped a hand over his shoulder clumsily, barely hanging onto his saw with the other one. He looked up to where the attack had come from, and he stared.

"You gents looking for someone?" Undertaker smiled down at them from atop one of the stowed lifeboats.

He held the blade of his death scythe—now stained red at the tip with Eric’s blood—against the throat of the young man he held captive with one arm. Ronald seemed oblivious to it. He lay as limp as a rag doll in his captor’s hold.

"Ronald!" Alan started to draw his scythe, but Undertaker clucked his tongue and shook his head warningly, pressing the blade harder against the young reaper’s vulnerable throat.

"Now, now…let’s not do that. Oh my, Mr. Slingby. I wasn’t expecting such a show when I poked you." He grinned at the strand of life events that Eric was hastily trying to draw back into himself. "Isn’t there a rule against fraternization, now? You’re both in the same department, after all. If you aren’t careful, you could end up a criminal like myself."

Eric glared at him, humiliated by the ease at which he’d taken them by surprise. “How?” he asked simply.

Undertaker’s smile grew cold, and the breeze lifted his bangs enough to reveal the malice in his penetrative gaze. “By surviving through things you could scarcely imagine, boy. You young folk are so careless. You think because you attack me in numbers, you hold an advantage over me. Half of you won’t survive another century, and the rest _might_ start to learn to use your heads more.”

"Undertaker," called another voice to the left. "I thought I told you to leave him!"

Everyone looked to see what they could have easily assumed to be a young woman approaching, but she loosened her hair from the fastenings as she walked, and the color changed from deep brown to vivid red. Her eyes changed too, going from a mild hazel to the intense, double-iris mixture of Shinigami eyes. She manifested a red chainsaw, leaving little doubt as to who she really was.

"Sutcliff?" sputtered Eric.

"You’re…really wearing a dress," observed Alan, apparently forgetting all about Ronald, for the moment. When Grell arched a brow at him, he shrugged. "It looks nice."

Grell smiled at him. “Thank you, Alan.” He cast a baleful look at the other three surprised reapers. “At least _someone_ here appreciates a lady’s efforts to look her best. You should see me in the red one, though.” He winked at Alan.

"So whose side are you on?" demanded Thomas. "His, or ours?"

Grell squinted up at Undertaker with a warning expression on his makeup highlighted features. “That depends on what my dear husband does next. Undertaker, we had an agreement.”

"I haven’t hurt him," protested Undertaker. "And I’ll let him go as soon as we make it to our destination. All these chaps have to do is leave off and allow us to traverse the realms for a short-cut. Your little friend here is our insurance policy, my dear."

"One slip and you could ‘short-cut’ Ronnie’s throat by accident," insisted Grell. "Now take that thing away from his neck."

Undertaker huffed with annoyance, and it didn’t seem the least bit staged. He looked at Eric with a displeased, uncommon frown on his lips. “Now you’ve gotten me in trouble with the wife.”

Eric’s brows shot up. “I think yer both a little too invested in this ‘husband an’ wife’ masquerade you’ve adopted.”

"Maybe I plan to make it official," suggested Undertaker—which caused Grell to blink at him and blush. "But I can’t do that from inside a stasis chamber now, can I?"

"You still have a chance," Eric persisted. "It doesn’t have to be this way. Between all of us and Spears, we could testify on his behalf, and I know people that work in Shinigami law. I don’t want to fight you."

Grell faltered a bit, looking up at his lover with a torn expression. “Maybe…we should hear them out?”

Undertaker gave the redhead a tender look that was impossible to miss. “How could you love me, if I were nothing more than a slave?”

Grell bit his lip, looking physically pained. He looked at Eric and the others, waiting tensely. He lifted his scythe and settled into defensive stance. “I’d love you regardless,” Grell promised, his gaze flicking back to his former associates, “but I’d never forgive myself for letting that happen to you. Just let Ronnie go.”

Undertaker looked at the young man in his arms, and Ronald groaned softly, his head lolling against the taller man’s shoulder. Undertaker sighed. “All right then. I suppose I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t honor your request.”

Grell smirked at him. “You’re learning. Good.”

"Don’t get cheeky," warned Undertaker with a grin. He looked down at Eric again. "Would you like me to show you the fundamental difference between you fellows and myself?"

Eric readied his saw, and beside him, Alan did the same with his garden slasher. “We’re not old as dirt?”

Undertaker laughed. “I’ll give you props for that one, but no.”

Suddenly, he chucked poor Ronald directly into the midst of his opponents, and the unconscious blond bowled over Simon and Alan. He came down in a flash, and he was in Eric’s face before he could even recover from the surprise move.

"I don’t need these to fight," said Undertaker.

For a second, his cold eyes loomed large in Eric’s sight, and then his glasses were snatched right off of his face and tossed overboard.

He impulsively whirled and flailed, trying in vain to catch them. Sensing the danger he was in, he abruptly ducked and he felt a whoosh of air over his head as Undertaker’s scythe trimmed a bit off the top. Thomas took advantage of the moment while the ancient recovered from his swing, and he got within range to stab him in the side with his sickle. Undertaker hissed and he kicked out at the young reaper, sending him flying across the deck to crash into a life vest wrack.

Passengers and staff exclaimed in surprise and confusion as an all-out fight erupted between the Shinigami amongst them. Each of them were cloaked, so to the mortal eyes, it appeared as though things were breaking and smashing apart for no reason. Someone yelled out that the ship was haunted, and people began to scream and clear the deck.

"Close in on him," hollered Eric in reminder to his companions. "His scythe has too much range!"

"Oh, there’s never such a thing as ‘too much’," assured Grell, and Eric found himself blocking the redhead’s screaming chainsaw. It threw sparks against his scythe and Grell smiled like a maniac at him, all sharp teeth and glinting, kohl-lined eyes. "You should have left us alone."

"Ya know we can’t!"

Eric shoved him away, and he moved in for the attack while Grell was slightly off-balance. As comfortable as he seemed in a dress, he wasn’t used to fighting in one and Eric used that to his advantage, in his efforts to subdue him. He slashed at the redhead, forcing him to dodge and back away, never giving him a moment to retaliate. Unfortunately, both of them were half blind without their glasses, so most of the strikes would have probably missed even without being blocked or dodged.  

"Whatever ya are now, yeh used tae be an officer of Shinigami Dispatch!" Eric hollered, his accent slipping again in his agitation. He struck out again and again at Grell to keep him on the defensive. "Do ya no’ understand we have no choice?"

"There’s always a choice!" shouted Grell in a sudden fury. "Do you know what they intend to _do_ to him? _Do you_?”

He seemed to get a second wind, and suddenly it was all Eric could do to avoid being cut to ribbons. He blocked an attack that could have split his face open, and the grind of the spinning chains against his scythe sent vibrations up his arms and made his teeth chatter. He saw Alan go flying and his heart rose in his chest when he heard him crash into something with an impact that probably would have shattered bones in a human’s body.

"They intend tae put him into stasis, if he won’t cooperate," answered Eric, trying not to think of his partner. He felt some relief when he saw Alan roll away from another of Undertaker’s attacks from the corner of his eye, and now Simon had rejoined him.

"No, it’s much worse than that," snapped Grell. He broke away from him, panting with more emotion than fatigue. "They aren’t just going to freeze him in time—although that’s a terrible enough fate! They’re going to brand him, Slingby! They want to put a Divine mark on him that will compel him to do as directed, just like the Faustian brand between a demon and its master! They want to make him a slave! Did you think he was just exaggerating, earlier?"

Dark clouds began to gather overhead with startling suddenness, and the wind picked up to a howl. None of the embattled reapers paid attention to it. Also un-noticed by the others, Ronald came too, and he struggled to his hands and knees with a groan. He put one hand to his head and looked up at the turbulent sky, confused and disoriented.

Eric circled his opponent warily, watching Grell’s eyes for a sign that he was lying or just being dramatic. “Where’d ya get this information?”

"I have my sources," answered Grell evasively. "Does it matter? You know the seal I’m talking about is real. We were all taught in training about how it was used in the past to control—"

"Suicidal reapers," finished Eric for him with a frown, "or those deemed tae be a danger tae themselves or others. Tha’ was jus’ tae stop ‘em from harming anyone, though. They havenae used a seal like tha’ since—"

"Uh, guys?" Ronald had climbed to his feet and he balanced against the rail for support. Lightning began to dance in the sky, and thunder crackled and boomed.

"Not now, Ronnie," Grell snapped in annoyance. "I’m trying to talk sense into Slingby!"

"Me? _Yer_ tha one who needs some sense talked into him!”

Ronald pointed up. “Guys?” It began to hail.

"Why, because I want to treat a legend with some dignity and respect?" Countered Grell. He took no notice of the small ice pellets falling around them.

"Oh, is tha’ what yer treatin’ him to?" Eric glanced at Undertaker, who was keeping both Alan and Simon on their toes. "Seems tae me yer giving him a lo’ more than tha’."

Grell colored, his cheeks taking on a dark stain of anger, subtly different from the rosy blushes of pleasure he developed when his passions were aroused. “Oh, you hypocritical, unshaven—”

Ronald whistled sharply, startling Grell out of his insult. _"Head’s up!_ " shouted Ronald, jumping up and down and pointing at the sky.

The urgency in his tone was the only thing that convinced him to take his eyes off of his dangerous opponent and look up. Grell did the same, but Undertaker and the other two were too busy with their fight to notice, and poor Thomas was still lying in a heap of life vests, unconscious. Eric frowned and squinted, unable to see anything. Grell was in the same fix.

"Just what in the hell are you on about, Ronald?" demanded Grell, shielding his eyes from the hail and rain with one hand.

Mere moments later, he got his answer.

 

* * *

Undertaker heard Knox’s excited yells, but they were a distant thing to him, unimportant. The deck grew slippery with pellets of ice, and he nearly skidded at one point. The one they called Simon fell right on his ass, his legs flying up comically as he went down. Undertaker snickered under his breath, and he decided to pin him in place with a sotoba for good measure. The boy yelled when the grave marker whistled through the air and slammed into the deck beside him, piercing his open blazer, but leaving his body unharmed. Undertaker took an arching, diagonal swing at Alan when he saw the brunet trying to take the small opening he’d given him, and Alan barely jumped back in time.

“ _Head’s up!_ ”

It was practically a scream. Trusting that he’d fended off his opponents enough to spare a glance, he combed his bangs out of his eyes and looked up.

There was a body falling from the sky, and it was coming straight for him. Undertaker prudently stepped aside, and he used his scythe as a staff to balance himself with when his boots crunched down on the slippery hail peppering the deck. The body hit the surface where he’d just been standing, and there was a sickening crunch as part of the deck cracked under the impact.

The fighting stopped. Everyone forgot about the conflict in the interest of examining the ravaged, naked body that had fallen from the sky. It was male in form, pale and ripped open in various places. In addition, it had wings. They appeared to be white in color, but they were singed as if the owner had fallen through fire, and burnt feathers sizzled out in the rain. It was an angel—or rather, what was left of one.

Ronald’s eyes were bugging out, and he looked from the angel to the rolling sky, overhead. “What the…how…where?”

The reapers surrounded it, and Undertaker nudged it with his boot to roll it over.

The eyes had been gouged out.

"This isn’t good," Alan said through stiff lips. "Is it…dead?"

Undertaker gave it a poke with the butt-end of his scythe to be sure, and then he looked at his companions. “I don’t think this one’s going to make it.”

"Oh, God," Alan said, kneeling before the twisted body. He reached out to touch the matted, golden hair, and he shook his head, pulling his hand away at the last minute. "What’s going _on_?”

Eric had gone just as pale as his partner, and even Grell was subdued by the unexpected event. He looked at Undertaker, and the ancient looked back at him. He couldn’t see his facial expressions very well without his glasses, but he saw the nod and he understood that there would be no more violence from him for now, unless they started it.

"We have tae go," decided Eric. "This needs tae be reported right away. Wi’ our communicators failing to get through an’ now this…we need tae find out what’s happening."

"I agree," sighed Alan in a relieved voice. He looked around and he went to Simon’s aid, while Ronald helped Thomas out of the pile he was in.

Eric looked at Grell and Undertaker, who were now standing close together. Undertaker had his arm around Grell in a protective manner, and he’d opened his outer robe to cloak the smaller reaper with it while Grell embraced him back. Both of them watched him silently, still holding their scythes in their hands. There was a definite warmth between them; one that Eric could identify with. He glanced over at his partner, who had finished helping Simon back to his feet.

"Is everyone ready?"

"Yeah, we’re good to go," called Ronald. He had one of Thomas’ arms draped around his neck, and he half-dragged the disoriented junior officer over. His gaze fell on Grell and Undertaker, and he sighed. "I guess this was a lucky break for all of us, Senpai. I just hope your zombie master takes good care of you."

Undertaker grinned and nodded, his silver hair now dripping with rain water, now that the hail had been replaced by softer precipitation. “Not to worry, Mr. Knox. I will.”

"This is probably only a temporary reprieve," warned Eric. "We can withdraw because the situation has changed our priorities, but they’re sure to keep sending us after you."

"I’ve no doubt of that," answered the Undertaker. "Until next time, Mr. Slingby."

Alan activated the portal to the Shinigami realm, and the five of them stepped through. Ronald cast one last, worried look at his mentor before giving him a wave goodbye and joining them. The portal closed, leaving Grell and Undertaker standing alone on the deck over a dead, broken angel.

 

* * *

-To be continued


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

"We can’t leave this here," mused Grell, looking down at the body. He looked up at his companion. "Undertaker, what is going _on_?”

Undertaker tilted his head back and looked up at the cloudy heavens. The weather anomaly was beginning to settle down again, and the rain slowed to a drizzle. “Angels falling from heaven,” he mused aloud, smiling. “No wonder they’re so desperate.”

Grell frowned at him, and then he looked down at the ravished body on the deck. The injuries clearly weren’t made by accident. The angel had been savaged. Grell remembered some of the theories he and Undertaker had discussed concerning Shinigami Dispatch’s odd, radical decision concerning him, and one possibility now loomed large in his mind.

"There’s a war happening," guessed the redhead. It had happened before, after all.

"Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet," advised Undertaker. He gestured at the dead angel. "This poor sod might have just fallen from grace and gotten kicked out…really, really violently."

"But you don’t think so." Grell narrowed his eyes at him.

Undertaker looked at him, smiled and shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there? Come, we should give this carcass up to the sea and be on our way.”

Grell frowned at him. “On our way to where? The ship isn’t scheduled to arrive at port for another two days.”

"We aren’t going to New Orleans," answered the Undertaker. "I know I promised you a new pair of glasses, but plans must change."

Grell was perplexed, at first. “Why, because they know this ship will be docking there?” It stood to reason that they could be there waiting for them, when they arrived. “We can’t teleport to another location at this distance, Undertaker. That would require traveling the mid-plane, and we can’t do that without alerting them, now that I don’t have my glasses to identify me as an agent.”

"Yes, I know," assured Undertaker. "I wasn’t going to suggest we try to pass through there undetected, love."

"Then _what_?” huffed Grell in frustration as his lover released him and went to the body to begin lifting it. The wings slapped against the deck as Undertaker began to carry the angel.

"No need," Undertaker assured him when Grell made a move to help, "this fellow weighs even less than you do. I wouldn’t want you to stain your dress."

Grell looked down at said dress, having forgotten all about it. “It isn’t my color, anyway.”

Undertaker chuckled, and he carried the angel over to the side of the ship and tossed it over the railing. He watched it fall into the water, and Grell came up beside him. “Nobody’s even come out here to see what’s happened, yet.”

"Oh, someone’s out here," corrected Undertaker. He looked up, and Grell followed his gaze to the observation tower, where crewmen were stationed to look out for icebergs and other treacherous obstacles. Two men were there now, staring down at their general direction. The humans couldn’t see him or Undertaker since they were both still cloaked, but they had obviously seen the angel’s body get tossed overboard. One of them was on the phone, possibly contacting security.

"Oh dear." Grell bit his lip. His former work associates had really mucked things up with their investigation. If it weren’t for them, he and Undertaker would probably still be in their cabin, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking. They certainly wouldn’t be up here on the sundeck, disposing of an angel’s body.

"I’m afraid we’ve overstayed our welcome," Undertaker said with an amused grin and a wink. He held his hand out for Grell. "Shall we?"

Grell looked around in confusion. “Where do you suggest we _go_?” He had the creeping feeling that Undertaker was about to cut another ocean liner in half. He recalled Undertaker’s words from moments ago concerning the Shinigami realm, and he went pale. “Undertaker, you can’t be suggesting we go to the higher plane.”

Undertaker grinned wildly. “Not suggesting my dear. I’m outright _telling_ you, that’s where we’re going.”

Grell couldn’t contain his grimace of horror. “Why would you want to do such a thing, after what we went through getting you out of custody?”

"Because things have changed," answered Undertaker. "And I’ve decided to offer willingly what they tried to take by force."

Grell ogled him. “Are you _mad_?”

At Undertaker’s ironic grin, he cleared his throat. “I just…you didn’t want this. Why are you changing your mind now? You said yourself that we don’t really know _what_ is really happening, yet.”

"Not for sure," agreed Undertaker, "but there’s a good chance it’s as bad as can be, Grell. If that is the case, then there soon won’t be anywhere to run or hide."

Grell was stricken. He searched his face for some sign that he was joking, but he could see the resolve in his gaze. “Undertaker, if you go back now, they’re going to arrest you again. They may carry through with their plans and this time, I won’t be able to stop them! I’ll probably be detained as well, even if we stick with the excuse that you kidnapped me.”

That brought a frown to the older reaper’s lips, and he cupped Grell’s face in his hands. “My cooperation depends on their willingness to pardon you. If they don’t agree to that, I’ll be taking my leave and they’ll have to kill me to stop me.”

Grell sighed. “I adore how protective of me you are, but how can you expect me to stand by and watch you do this?” They’d just _found_ each other. The thought of being torn away from him killed him inside.

"You’ll have to trust me," insisted Undertaker. He kissed him softly, ignoring the sounds of the humans coming up on deck. "I know how the organization thinks, and if that angel was a portent of what I think it could be, they can’t afford to ignore my offer."

"Then you’re really going to sign their contract?"

Undertaker smirked at him. “I didn’t exactly say that, did I?”

Grell sighed and shut his eyes with dread. “I really don’t like this.”

"I know you don’t, lovely." Undertaker kissed him again. "I’m not interested in martyrdom. I’ve just got a feeling in my bones they’re going to need an old codger like me around, and my precognitive senses are usually accurate."

Undertaker smiled again, and he embraced him. “Let’s return to our cabin and prepare to go, shall we? We wouldn’t want to leave your fancy dresses behind.”

Grell sighed. No, that wouldn’t do. Pity he couldn’t wear such fancy dresses openly at home, though. Grell happened to glance into the water surrounding the ship, and he frowned. “Um…Undertaker?”

The taller reaper followed Grell’s pointing finger with his eyes, and he shared his frown when he saw what had attracted his attention. They both walked over to the railing to peer over the side of the ship. The security personnel on the sundeck also began to examine the water, having noticed it too. Completely unaware of the two supernatural beings in their midst, they murmured speculatively amongst each other, their voices laced with anxiety.

All around them, dead marine life was floating to the surface of the water, and steam began to rise from the ocean. At first, Grell and Undertaker weren’t sure what they were looking at, due to their near-sightedness and their lack of corrective eyewear. A nearby crewman exclaimed aloud to his companion, confirming what they thought they were seeing.

"Blimey! They’re getting cooked alive! The ocean’s boiling!"

Undertaker’s mouth compressed. “We’re leaving…now. This liner is no longer safe for anyone.”

"But…my things," objected Grell sadly, knowing it was terribly vane of him but unable to bear the thought of leaving the lovely clothing he’d purchased behind.

"We’ll grab the trunk," assured Undertaker, "but we can’t linger to check inventory."

Grell sighed in relief.

 

* * *

Their arrival on the Shinigami plane caused quite a stir. William got informed immediately and strangely enough, when he went to inform Lawrence Anderson of his arrival, the old glass-maker already knew about it.

"You want me to accompany you to meet him," guessed Mr. Anderson calmly.

"Yes," agreed William. "You once worked with him while he was still in the system, didn’t you?"

"Not in the field," corrected Lawrence, "but he and I often stayed up late, filing records in the library. If you think you’re short staffed now, you should have seen what we had to work with in those days."

They fell into step together, moving with hurried dignity. “I’ve ordered all personnel to stand down,” explained William. “Undertaker came with Grell Sutcliff, and so far they haven’t drawn their scythes. They’ve come of their own accord, apparently.”

Anderson nodded, and he reached up to smooth his mustache thoughtfully. “Given what’s been happening not only on our plane, but on the mortal one as well, I think it’s safe to assume that Undertaker wants to negotiate.”

"I believe so," agreed William. "We’ll at least allow him the chance to present his case. I still haven’t gotten through to Senior Management. All contact still appears to be cut off."

"I’ve reached one person from Senior Management," offered the older reaper. "He was once the head librarian, before he was promoted to the higher plane. He happened to be on this one for a routine inspection of the Great Library, when the anomalies began."

William dug through his memory. “Jacobs?” he guessed. “Phillip Jacobs?”

Anderson nodded. “The one and the same. He’ll be interested in speaking with Undertaker too, when we bring him to headquarters.”

"And what if he won’t come willingly?" asked William, sounding far more calm than he felt.

"Oh, I believe he will." Lawrence pushed his glasses up on his nose, and he looked up at the cloudy sky as they stepped out into the courtyard. His gaze went to the fountain in the center of it, and the big statue of Undertaker crowning it. "He’s curious, you see. Curiosity has always been Undertaker’s greatest weakness, and I always did warn him that it would be his downfall, some day."

William frowned, finding that statement quite logical. It was curiosity that drove Undertaker to experiment with cinematic records and see if he could extend human life, after all. Were it not for his desire to see what would happen, the army of zombies—his “bizarre dolls”—would never have been created.

"And what has Mr. Jacobs suggested to you, about this situation?"

"That depends on Undertaker," answered Lawrence. "He still has crimes to answer for, but as a representative of our highest level of authority, Mr. Jacobs is willing to negotiate a deal with him that will allow him to clear his name, in exchange for his services. If he agrees, then he will be pardoned when this is finished—provided we all survive."

William relaxed a bit. “Then the plan to brand him is out?”

"Since we’ve lost all contact with our superiors since this began, yes. Jacobs will offer this new contract to Undertaker himself, and it will be legally binding under Shinigami law if he accepts. Not even Senior Management can break it, if they have an objection when and if we re-establish contact with them."

The answer satisfied William. “Perhaps we can salvage this situation, yet.”

"I can only hope," agreed Lawrence.

 

* * *

"If they try to take you again, I’ll kill you," promised Grell as he and Undertaker walked through the ranks of curious and wary reapers. None of them tried to stop them, and he presumed they had orders from Dispatch to let them through—as long as they went where the authorities wanted them to go.

"Given the circumstances," Undertaker said with a smirk, "that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me."

He kept one arm cordially around Grell’s waist as they walked, and he pulled the chest behind them on its wheels with the other arm. Those who weren’t staring at the legendary reaper in his flowing garments, big top hat and mad grin were ogling the redhead at his side. Grell was still dressed in his emerald gown, though his hair had come loose from its bindings and fell free down his back. He walked straight and proud with his gentleman companion, daring them all with his eyes to say a single disparaging word about his state of dress.

"I think they’re more curious about you than me, love," Undertaker murmured into his ear, his mouth still grinning broadly. "You’re a star."

"Shall I blow them kisses, then?" Grell was grinning as well, though his stomach was full of knots. They were _so_ outnumbered! It seemed like half the city was there, lined up like parade goers to watch them march up to Shinigami Headquarters. Death scythes glinted amongst those wearing Dispatch and Security uniforms, leaving little doubt that they would be under siege immediately, if they tried to turn around and leave or take a different path.

They were being herded.

It made Grell want to puke, but Undertaker didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned. Grell wondered how he could have ever thought it was a good idea to return here, even for a moment. He supposed hearing promises from work associates he liked made him want to believe everything really would be okay, if Undertaker would cooperate. Now he felt that same foreboding dread he’d suffered when the ancient was incarcerated, and his feverish imagination began to picture his beautiful love being locked into a stasis chamber and branded against his will.

"Undertaker," Grell murmured, pressing closer to him and curling his fingers into his hair.

"It’s all right, my dear," comforted the taller reaper, giving him a little squeeze. "If they wanted to take us prisoner or kill us, they’d have done it by now. Besides, I’ve got your promise to put me out of my misery if they turn on me. What more could a man ask for?"

"How about dignity?" sighed Grell. "I…don’t want to kill you."

"Well, that’s a relief," chuckled Undertaker. He leaned closer to murmur in Grell’s ear. "If you did, I’d have to question my methods of satisfying you."

Grell flushed, and a grin found its way onto his lips. “No need to question that,” he assured dreamily. “You have the role of the lover down perfectly, you fiendish hunk.”

That made Undertaker laugh outright, which probably didn’t improve the impression people had that he was completely bonkers. Grell couldn’t help but giggle along with him, finding his laughter contagious, as always. He’d never met someone with such an open, carefree laugh before and he’d come to wonder why people thought it suggested madness.

Then again, most people believed Grell himself was at least half-mad.

"Senpai! Sutcliff Senpai!"

Grell looked up at the familiar call, and he smiled broadly as Ronald pushed his way through the crowd to join him, waving frantically all the while. He had his favorite fedora hat crammed over his feathered blond locks, and he was smiling with relief as he made his way to them.

"Ronnie," greeted the redhead when his former trainee made it to him and gave him a brief, impulsive hug. "I’m glad to see you up and about."

Ron’s eyes swept over him in puzzlement, but he shrugged, evidently deciding it didn’t matter that Grell was still in his dress. “You’re not going to _believe_ what’s been happening around here.”

The wind picked up, and lightning flashed overhead. Grell glanced skyward, and his gaze briefly met Undertaker’s as the chill breeze blew the older reaper’s bangs aside enough to reveal his eyes. “If it’s anything like what happened on the _Duchess_ , I think I’ll believe it.”

The crowd parted further at that moment, and Grell squinted as two vaguely familiar figures wearing business suits approached from the direction of the HQ building. As they drew nearer, he was able to recognize William. He identified the second man as Mr. Anderson, once they stopped before he and Undertaker. The head of the glasses department offered a hand to Undertaker, who shook it.

"Good to see you again, old friend," offered Lawrence.

Undertaker smiled. “You didn’t come and see me while I was in lock-up.”

Anderson released his hand and he shrugged lightly. “They wouldn’t permit it, once I told them my feelings on their chosen course of action.”

"You missed my fabulous mummy look," complained Undertaker, "but I’ll forgive you, under the circumstances."

"Undertaker," greeted William cordially with a nod. His gaze flicked to Grell and he frowned. "Er…Sutcliff."

Grell put a hand on his hip and gave William a challenging look, beyond the point of being intimidated by him. “Yes? Is there something wrong, Will?”

"You’re in a formal gown," answered the supervisor candidly, as if stating the obvious.

"Yes, I am," agreed the redhead. "I didn’t really have the time to change into something less formal, under the circumstances. Do you have a problem with that, Spears?"

Unused to being sassed by Grell since he became the supervisor of their department, William blinked. He parted his lips, rethought his words, and then started to answer. Lightning came forking down out of the sky before he could respond, and people yelled in startled fear as it struck one of the telephone poles nearby. The lines snapped free and whipped about dangerously as the pole itself bent over to the left, the metal heated enough to soften the structure.

"Get back," shouted Eric Slingby, urging people away from the damaged structure. "Everyone, get indoors!"

Nobody argued with him and as the assembled population scattered to seek out shelter, Mr. Anderson gave Undertaker and Grell a tense nod. “I think we’d best conduct the rest of this conversation inside, gentlemen.”

"I agree," answered William with a wary look up at the sky. "It’s starting up again. Come along, Grell Sutcliff. We have things to discuss with the both of you."

"Not until we have your word that you won’t arrest Undertaker," insisted Grell stubbornly.

Another bolt of lightning struck, and this time it hit the pavement not twenty feet away from them, leaving a scorched spot that smelled of charred brick. Undertaker took Grell by the arm and ushered him along, nodding at the two managers.

"Move it along, chaps. We won’t get much negotiation done if we stand out here until we’re crisped."

Grell deflated a little over being undermined. “Fine,” he snapped, “but if they turn on us, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Undertaker gave him a tender little smile meant for him alone, and he kissed him on the cheek. Grell of course melted and dropped any further argument. Ronald rolled his eyes at his mentor’s obviously smitten state, and he cast a look at William that said he wished he was half as easy to manipulate as that. The brunet’s expression remained impassive, but for the slight lift of one straight, dark brow. He called out for Eric and Alan to join them, choosing only his top-ranking officers to attend the impromptu meeting.

 

* * *

Since the elevators were out of order due to the raging, erratic storms and they had luggage with them, William opted out of taking the stairs all the way to the top floor. Instead, he brought them into one of the banquet rooms on the first floor; usually reserved for holiday parties and diplomatic gatherings. After securing the doors shut, he politely invited everyone to take a seat of their choice, while he phoned the front desk and ordered them to bring refreshments. Undertaker and Grell took a loveseat near the round fireplace in the center of the room, and Eric and Alan sat down on the loveseat adjacent to them. Ronald went to the wet bar to mix his own drink.

"Mr. Anderson," William said respectfully to the elder reaper—who was now packing his pipe for a smoke, "Please contact Mr. Jacobs and inform him that we await him in banquet room 2-B."

"Jacobs?" Undertaker said, frowning. He looked up at Anderson, who nodded and pulled out his phone to begin dialing. The silver reaper shook his head and chuckled. "This ought to be rich."

"Why?" asked Grell. "Who is this ‘Jacobs’ person?"

"Only the biggest stick in the mud ever to be created," answered Undertaker with a sidelong grin at him. "Makes your Willy look like a regular Charley Chaplain, my dear."

William flushed and put his phone away. “With all due respect sir, Mr. Jacobs is a Senior Manager now; and it’s William, not ‘Willy’.”

"I knew him back when he was a humble librarian," Undertaker responded with a grin. He nodded at Anderson. "Didn’t I, Lawrence?"

Anderson held up a finger to beg for quiet, frowning as he listened to his phone. Undertaker shrugged and dropped an arm around Grell’s shoulders, urging him closer. “Ah well, maybe he’s finally loosened up, over the years. I’d hate to think he got wound up even tighter.”

"I can’t get through to him," Anderson said, putting his phone away with a sigh.

Alan frowned. “That lightning strike outside hit a land line. Doesn’t Mr. Jacobs carry an organization phone with him? The aether connections should still be okay.”

"His personal phone won’t work here," answered Lawrence. "It’s attuned to the higher plane, and all communications with the next realm have been cut off. Still, connectivity to the phone in his personal suite here should still be functioning. I’ll try again in—"

There was a knock at the doors then, and it wasn’t the polite rapping of an underling maid or janitor, requesting entry. It was a hard, firm series of knocks that sounded like steel banging against wood. William frowned and hurried over to the doors to open them, and he fell back and bowed respectfully as a man who appeared around Anderson’s age strode in.

The man had auburn hair streaked with silver, and it fell in waves to his shoulders. He wore his sideburns long in a style quite popular in London, right now. He wore a top hat on his head and a pair of round lenses for his glasses. He carried a walking cane with a lion’s head handle, and he stopped and looked around at the small gathering with narrowed, thoughtful eyes. His gaze settled on Undertaker, and a hint of a frown curved his lips. He removed the hat from his head, and he casually handed it to William without even looking at him or asking him to take it. The Dispatch supervisor took it without question and placed it on the hat rack near the bar.

"Take that off, Ronald," muttered William, and he snatched the blond’s fedora hat off his head before he could even begin to obey.

"Well, I see we have the best and the brightest gathered here," said Mr. Jacobs in a deep, cultured voice. "We’re surely doomed."

His gaze settled on Undertaker, who was grinning at him like a naughty student trying to provoke a reaction in the classroom. He looked at the silver reaper’s hat, and he raised a brow. “We take our hats off indoors, Undertaker.”

"Shake your finger elsewhere, Phil," advised Undertaker—incidentally drawing a bug-eyed look from William. "The hat stays unless I choose otherwise."

"It isn’t important," said Anderson before the other ancient could retaliate. "We aren’t here to discuss formal etiquette, we are here to negotiate a deal with Undertaker and discuss what’s to be done about the situation."

Jacobs looked like he wanted to say more, but he nodded curtly and he paced the room, tapping the floor with his cane as he went. The hard soles of his boots clicked against the wood as he moved, keeping rhythm with his cane. “Have you discussed the situation with them yet, Mr. Spears?”

"No sir," answered William. "I thought I would wait for you."

"Mm, prudent decision," approved the older reaper. He stopped before Undertaker and Grell, and he frowned at the redhead, finally noticing his gender. "Why is this man in a dress?"

Undertaker gave Grell a little squeeze as the redhead began to sputter. “Because he’s a lady,” he answered without missing a beat. His response immediately pacified his companion, and Grell smiled smugly and cuddled up to him.

"Hmph…what a charming couple you make," muttered Jacobs. "The lunatic and the cross dresser. Very fitting."

Behind him, William colored a bit in a rare display of emotion. “Sir, I assure you that Sutcliff is…or was…one of my best agents.”

Grell looked up at him with surprise. “I was?”

"He was?" repeated Eric and Alan together, equally surprised. The latter shot Grell an apologetic look when he got a pout from him in response to his comment.

Anderson and Jacobs both looked surprised as well, but Ronald merely nodded and grinned at his mentor as if he never doubted it in the first place. “Yes,” said William calmly, “when he actually did the work assigned to him, Mr. Sutcliff was a model employee. He had passion for his work and he finished his assignments in record time. His deplorable personality and reckless nature notwithstanding, he has always been a brilliant reaper.”

"You could have said so once in a while," huffed Grell.

"It hardly matters if he was a top agent with a spotless record," insisted Jacobs, "He helped a criminal escape. Mr. Anderson is correct, however…we have other matters to concern us, today."

He faced Undertaker and Grell again. “I assume you’ve taken notice of the anomalies happening in the mortal realm. It’s the only reason I can imagine you willingly setting foot in this realm, again.”

Undertaker nodded.

"The truth of the matter is, gentlemen," he looked at Grell as if unsure that title could apply to him. "There is a war brewing in Heaven."

"We know," said Grell.

"Figured as much," agreed Undertaker.

Phillip frowned at them both. “You know? _How_ do you know, if you weren’t informed upon arrival, here?”

"Wasn’t that hard to figure out, old chap," answered Undertaker with a shrug, "what with the seas boiling and the skies raining hail. Oh yes, and then there was the whole bit with the angel nearly landing on our heads. That was a fancy clue, right there."

"Angel?" repeated Jacobs. He looked at Anderson. "I wasn’t told about any angel."

"We didn’t get the report in before things started going haywire on this side," explained Eric. "We got the chance to tell Mr. Spears, but none of the paperwork got processed."

Jacobs turned to William and Anderson. “Tell me what this is about.”

"While attempting to apprehend the Undertaker, the team led by Mr. Slingby bore witness to a weather phenomenon similar to what we’ve been having here in our realm," answered William dutifully. "There efforts were interrupted when a body fell from the sky to land on the deck of the ship. All agents agreed that it was the body of an angel."

"I gave the order to leave the scene because our communication devices stopped functioning properly on the other side," added Eric. He absently traced the cornrows braided into the right side of his hair. "We had injured officers and no way of knowing if more anomalies were to come, so I made the call to return here and find out what was happening."

"I see." Jacobs glanced at Anderson, who had just lit his pipe and taken a puff of it. "The situation may be worse than we suspected, then."

Ronald raised his free hand, holding a mixed drink in the other hand. “How bad is that, sir?”

"I can’t answer that for certain. What I can tell you is that right now, the fighting is happening in the upper planes and it hasn’t yet broken through to this one or the mortal realms. We are in the middle realm that separates Heaven from Earth and Hell. As you know, this organization gets its orders from the lowest level of Heaven. Since there is a conflict happening somewhere in the upper planes, communications in between all higher realms have been compromised."

"Do you have any insight as to what started this conflict?" William asked.

Jacobs looked right at Undertaker. The silver Shinigami raised his brows and scoffed at him.

"Oh, really? Explain to me how I caused a war in Heaven," demanded Undertaker.

"There were already tensions," answered Jacobs rigidly. "Angels have never been overly fond of reapers, as you know. They consider us beneath them, and they resent us for our position of ferrying souls to the afterlife and cataloguing them. Some angels have even been suggesting that the responsibility of cataloguing and guarding the cinematic records should be taken from Shinigami. They believe we should only reap those records, and that the library should be in the upper planes for the angels to maintain."

"And what does this have to do with Undertaker?" demanded Grell. "It sounds to me like this has been going on for some time."

"It has," agreed Jacobs, "but up until Undertaker meddled with life and death in such a…crass and vile manner, those that wished to see our kind usurped from our duty lacked support. Ever since our friend Undertaker conducted his little experiment, that support has been steadily growing and the angels have become divided over it."

He paused and glared at Undertaker, who spread his hands. “It was just a bit of fun. How was I to know the angels would get their togas in a bunch over it?”

Jacobs harrumphed, and he pushed his glasses up further on his nose. “The one thing they agreed upon was that Undertaker needed to be reined in or destroyed. Seeing the increasing threat to the integrity of our organization, Senior Management decided that Undertaker would be more valuable alive than dead, and the plan to rehabilitate him came to light. I came here to this realm to inspect the Great Library and inspect the defenses. I was meant to report back today, but as you can see, that’s quite impossible. The gateways are shut.”

"So now the angels are battling amongst themselves over the fate of the soul well and the future role of Shinigami in regards to it," reasoned Lawrence. He blew a smoke ring into the air. "Hmm. This isn’t good."

"Well, does it really matter if the angels take over library maintenance?" Ronald asked. "I mean we’re always so busy. Maybe if we can reach them, we could just tell them to go for it. It would lighten the load for us reapers and we might actually get a full weekend off, now and then."

"You don’t understand, son," explained Anderson. "Shinigami are meant to be the mediators, neither dark nor light. We work for the Divine, but we don’t judge souls by the criteria an angel would."

Undertaker nodded. “Because we’re designed to be impartial when we view those records and file them away—or spare the mortal’s life, in the rare instance they’ve got something special to offer the world.”

"And angels are designed as a conduit to the Divine," said Jacobs. "They are made to serve Heaven and guard it from Hell. Therefore, they lack objectivity. They exist to praise the light and carry out the will of the Divine."

"So, if an angel tries to judge a soul once it arrives for cataloguing," Alan said softly, "it wouldn’t be giving it a fair trial?"

"That’s the easiest way to think of it," agreed Undertaker. "An angel naturally gets mightily offended at any slight humans make against the Divine, regardless of which religious tenets they follow. If the rules set down for their belief system say they shouldn’t eat meat on a certain day and they did it anyway, and angel would jot that down as a heavy mark against them."

"How heavy?" Grell asked. "As severe as murder?"

"Probably not," reasoned Anderson, "but they would still view it as a direct insult against the Divine."

"By angelic logic," explained Jacobs, "once a mortal chooses a religion by which to worship the Divine, he or she makes a vow to abide by the rules of that dogma. Unless they willfully convert to a different religion at some point in their lives, any failure to adhere to those rules throughout their lives is viewed harshly. Some sins are still far greater than others, but the little ones that would ordinarily be given a pass due to the balance of good deeds are still given black marks."

"So where would that leave atheists?" Ronald asked after sipping his drink. "They don’t really follow any religious rules, except the laws put down based on them."

"There are universal tenets," explained Anderson, "and as long as they don’t violate those, I imagine atheists would go to Purgatory."

"Not bad enough for Hell, not good enough for Heaven," agreed Undertaker. "Those are the ones that end up stuck in the library indefinitely, or end up reborn in another life."

"Or as Shinigami," Grell said, perking up.

Undertaker smiled at him. “Indeed.”

"Well, it makes a certain amount of sense," William said. He absently inspected his death scythe. "It would take a neutral soul to create a neutral being, capable of judging the dying without any strong feelings on where they end up in the afterlife."

"Yes, quite," agreed Jacobs impatiently. "So you can see the peril in allowing angels to take over the task of cataloguing souls."

"Well, what would a few misplaced souls do?" asked Grell in confusion.

"Destroy the balance between Heaven, Hell and Limbo," obliged Anderson, "which would in turn unravel creation and eventually destroy everything and everyone."

Grell stared at him, then at Undertaker. The silver reaper shrugged and grinned. “You asked, love.”

"I have to wonder why the Divine powers aren’t intervening personally," mused Eric. He sipped the brandy that Ron had poured for him. "If this feud between angels could destroy everything created by them, shouldn’t they be stepping up?"

"The Maker and its host assigned specific roles to all divine beings," answered Jacobs. "The Divine won’t get personally involved in our quarrels. They gave us what we needed to govern ourselves and our realms, and then departed. Only the highest choirs of angels are still in contact with the Divine, and they themselves are aloof and don’t generally communicate with the lower planes."

"And what do the highest choirs think of all this?" Grell asked.

"If I knew that, I might not be here now discussing this matter with you people," snapped Jacobs crossly. "My communication with the angels extends only to the lowest tier. Beyond that, even the highest ranking Shinigami are shunned."

"Except for Undertaker," corrected Anderson with a faintly amused look at the reaper in question.

"Oh?" Undertaker looked intrigued.

"From what I’ve heard, some of the archangels bear some respect for you," answered Lawrence with a nod. "Of course to them, your work on that cult was a righteous display of wrath. You know how archangels can be, though."

"Unsurprising that warrior angels would approve of it," sighed Jacobs. "It’s neither here nor there. Even if your actions gained the respect of one or two of them, Undertaker, the later abominations you created reflected poorly on all of us. This might not be happening, if you hadn’t provided evidence to support the claim that reapers can’t be entrusted with the task we were assigned."

Undertaker made a huffing sound, and he got off of the loveseat. He finally removed his hat, and he combed his long bangs out of his eyes to peer at his fellow elders as he dropped the hat to the sofa. “If the angels want to wrest control of he library away from Shinigami society, they’ll find an excuse to do it. Me raising the dead surely must have pissed them off since that sort of thing is supposed to be reserved for the Divine, but I’m only one reaper. It sounds to me like a group of them is dead set on declaring war on this institution, and my actions make no nevermind to them.”

"But it was your actions that swayed more to their side!" insisted Jacobs angrily.

"Hogwash," rebutted Undertaker. "These tensions were running high long before I played with those records and made my children."

Before Jacobs could respond, Anderson broke in. “Placing blame will get us nowhere! Mr. Jacobs, please consider the risks we face if the fighting reaches this realm and comes to us. This meeting was to present the new proposal to Undertaker, as you recall.”

Jacobs’ lips thinned, and his gaze flicked between the eyewear maker and the retired reaper. “Very well. Undertaker, I’ve prepared a contract for you to look at, one that contains no compulsory elements. If you’ll agree to assist in the defense of this organization in the event that the conflict makes it to us, then on behalf of Senior Management, I’m prepared to grant you a pardon for your crimes. The pardon will take immediate effect when the threat is over, whether we vanquish it ourselves or it never reaches us. We must protect the pupil of this realm at all costs, and prevent the invasion of the Great Library or Headquarters.”

"No brand, then?" pressed Undertaker.

"Absolutely not," agreed Jacobs. "The order originally placed down by Senior Management no longer applies, under these circumstances. It would be impossible to place a Divine brand on you under this situation, anyhow. We’re completely cut off from the source."

Undertaker smirked. “So then you’re begging me to help.”

"Don’t be so cocky," said Jacobs. "You came back expecting something like this; you _must_ have! Why would you willingly give yourself up if you didn’t think you had some edge?”

"I was curious," admitted Undertaker with a shrug, and Lawrence Anderson coughed into his hand to hide a chuckle.

"Don’t you take his side," warned Phillip to Anderson.

"He just coughed," Undertaker defended. "Remove the stick from your bum, Phil."

The two of them began to argue heatedly, with Anderson trying in vain to act as mediator and keep the piece. While the three ancients debated the situation amongst themselves, the younger reapers converged at the bar uncomfortably, forgetting any differences they had over Grell’s defection in a moment of uncertainty.

 

* * *

"Ronnie, make me a Bloody Mary," Grell ordered in a whisper as he watched his lover taunt the stuffy old manager.

"Already done," said the younger reaper with a wink at him, holding out a glass. "I figured you were coming for one when I saw you get up."

Alan watched the exchanges between the ancients with faint dismay. “This must be what it feels like to watch your parents fight,” he sighed.

Ronald smirked. “Yeah, except Grell’s sleeping with one of them.” He made a face at his mentor. “Ew, that’s kind of sick!”

Grell smacked him on the back of the head, just hard enough to make him yelp. “Quiet, you. Undertaker is the furthest thing from a parental figure I can think of.” He watched his lover with a dreamy, sharp smile. “Just look at him. Isn’t he handsome?”

"And really young looking, compared to his fellow ancients," observed Alan with interest. "Why is that? Aren’t all three of them from the same generation?"

"Lower your voices," cautioned William. "As for their looks, Undertaker was created as a Shinigami from the beginning. The other two were once mortals who earned the favor of the Divine and were chosen to be granted reaper immortality."

"Oh, so they’re like us," reasoned Ronald. "But that doesn’t explain why they both look fifty or so, when none of us look over thirty-five."

"Because we were resurrected," answered Eric. "Well, except for you. We were given new bodies. They weren’t. They were still alive and human, when they were made into Shinigami. Isn’t that right, Spears?"

William nodded. “Correct.”

He began to say something else, but then Undertaker made an announcement that hushed them all up.

"I’ll agree to your terms," said the retired reaper, "but I have conditions of my own that must be met, first."

Jacobs sighed. “Name them, and we’ll see.”

Undertaker looked over at Grell, and he gestured gracefully at him. “The first is that Mr. Sutcliff be cleared of all charges against him for helping me escape.”

Grell stopped sipping his drink, his lips frozen around his straw as he stared at him. All he could think of was how greatly he intended to reward him, if they ever got a few moments of privacy again.

"We can arrange that," agreed Jacobs. "What else?"

"The second condition is rather simple," answered Undertaker with a broad grin. "I want to be entertained."

Grell nearly snorted. “I might have known,” he muttered around his straw.

Both of the other ancients looked at Undertaker curiously—though Lawrence again seemed to be hiding a smirk. He puffed his pipe while Jacobs asked for clarification. “What exactly does this ‘entertainment’ involve?”

"Oh, nothing too complex," assured Undertaker. "You see, Phillip, when I created my lovely dollies for the Aurora Society, I became quite fond of the secret pose they used to identify members. It makes me laugh, every time I see it."

"Oh, the Phoenix pose," Ronald said before any of the elders could respond. He chuckled and nudged his mentor. "I’ve got to admit, that was pretty funny to watch."

"Mm-hmm," agreed Undertaker with a white-toothed grin. "It’s particularly delightful when stuffy, serious types have to pull it off."

Jacobs’ face bore a stony expression. “And I suppose you want to see me strike this pose of yours, is that it?”

Undertaker considered him, and he shrugged. “Tempting, but no. You’re not limber enough, in your advanced age. You might break a hip if you try it.”

He turned away from the executive, ignoring his indignant look. He pointed at William. “You. Mr. Spears. I think I’d fancy seeing you perform the entry pose.”

Grell covered his mouth to avoid spitting his drink all over the place in a burst of laughter. Poor Will looked flustered, helpless and uncomfortable. “I’m afraid I don’t know this ritual pose you wish to see,” said the brunet.

"I do!" Ronald said with glee. "I watched some people do it. I can show you how, Spears Senpai."

William shot the blond a murderous look. “How…generous.”

Ronald—looking like he was having a blast—put his drink on the bar and he urged William to go with him into the men’s room. “We’ll be right back. I think Mr. Spears would learn best in private.”

 

* * *

"He isn’t going to do it," predicted Eric after more than five minutes passed. "There’s no way Spears will degrade himself to that."

"You might be surprised," Grell said with a smirk. "He did work undercover as a tightrope walker in a circus once, after all. Will can be very tenacious, when it comes to getting a job done."

"Shh, here they come," advised Alan as William and Ronald exited the little bathroom and approached the fireplace, where the ancients waited.

Undertaker stood up when he saw them coming, and he grinned in anticipation as William and Ronald stopped and stood side by side. “Well, let’s here it and see it, lads.”

William cleared his throat. “I’m only doing this for the good of the organization.”

Undertaker made an expectant gesture at him, his grin fairly sparkling with mirth. “Less complaints, more posing.”

William looked at Ronald as if he blamed him for half of this, and then they both drew a deep breath.

"The complete flame in our chests shall not be extinguished by anyone," they recited in unison. "We are _The Phoenix_!”

Together, they lifted their arms and bent their left legs at the knee. They bent their hands to represent wings, and Undertaker burst into loud, raucous laughter. Poor William was completely red in the face with embarrassment, but Ronald was grinning like the party boy he was. Seeing him that way sent Grell into peals of laughter too, and his companions struggled not to join him.

"Poor William," chuckled Eric helplessly, shaking his head.

Undertaker stumbled over to the nearest sofa and sat down on it, pressing his face against the back of it to muffle his laughter. He slapped the cushion with one hand as he guffawed into the material. Even Mr. Anderson smiled—but Mr. Jacobs somehow managed to hide any amusement he might have felt, completely.

Grell decided that he really _was_ a giant stick in the mud, as Undertaker suggested.

When he finally caught his breath enough to speak, Undertaker wiped his eyes and he nodded at his companions. “I’m satisfied. Let me see this contract you’ve drawn up, and we can get down to the business of signing it.”

 

* * *

-To be continued       


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

After signing the contract, Undertaker received a bit of a surprising, dubious gift from Lawrence. The eyewear maker retrieved something from the pocket of his suit and he held it out to him.

"I know you’ve adapted to going without," he said as Undertaker opened the case to find his old glasses inside, good as new, "but chances are you may find them useful, if it comes to serious warfare. Being able to see clearly again can only give you an advantage as a fighter, after all."

Undertaker stared at the familiar, silver framed glasses, and he impulsively caressed them as if greeting an old lover. “I think I ought to decline these,” he sighed, “much as it does my old heart good to see them again. I don’t care for the thought of being tracked.”

"I think you should reconsider that," advised Jacobs. "If any of us go missing or find ourselves trapped during the conflict, our glasses will enable our comrades to locate us quickly and come to our aid."

Undertaker shrugged. “If I go missing or get trapped, I’ll find my way out of it or perish.” He started to hand the case back to Anderson, but the other ancient shook his head and refused to take it.

"Keep them," suggested Lawrence. "Just in case you change your mind. You never know if you might need them, Undertaker, and your decision to wear them or not will have no bearing on our agreement. They’re _your_ glasses, after all. It’s fitting that you should have them. I can even have the tracking element removed, when the danger has passed.”

Undertaker put the case away almost reverently, and he nodded and smiled at him. “I’ll consider it. Thank you, old friend.”

Grell stepped forward, and his brows were hedged uncertainly. Almost shyly, he spoke to the director of the Glasses Department. “Mr. Anderson, I don’t suppose there’s any chance you still have the custom design I put in for my officer glasses, do you?”

Lawrence cracked a hint of a smile for him, and he reached into a different pocket. “As a matter of fact, I thought you might request a new pair eventually, if you ever returned. I took it upon myself to do even better and repair the originals. Your protégé brought them to me.”

Grell beamed with pleasure as the older reaper placed a case with a rose embossment pattern lined with little red gemstones in his eager hands. “Oh! You even found my case! Those two stones that went missing are back, too!”

"Do try to be more careful with them," advised the older reaper as Grell opened the case and put his glasses on.

"Absolutely!" The redhead looked up at his silver-haired companion. "So long as nobody snatches them off of my face to smash them again."

Undertaker grinned. “There shouldn’t be a need for that again, so your glasses are safe from me.”

Grell sighed, looking around. “I can see again. This is _so_ much better than going without. I’m sorry Undertaker, but it simply is.”

Undertaker didn’t argue with him. “I’m glad he fixed them up for you, lovely.”

Grell smiled, and he looked at William. “Well, can we leave now, or is there more to go over?”

"Go?" repeated the brunet with a frown.

"Yes," sighed Grell. "I thought I’d go home, to my apartment. If there’s nothing more for us to do right now, I’d like to put away my things, shower and change into something more comfortable. It’s been an exhausting day, Will. You could use a shower, yourself."

William frowned at him, and he self-consciously straightened his tie. “Yes, you may go. Collect a replacement communicator on your way out. With these storms knocking out power lines throughout the city, the landlines cannot be relied on.”

He turned to Undertaker. “Sir, I will arrange for a number to be assigned to you. We should have a communicator ready for you to pick up in the morning.”

Undertaker didn’t quite know what to think of that, but he understood the tactical advantage of being able to ring his allies with a portable device. “That will do just fine. Mr. Spears.” He grinned impulsively at him. “You make a nice phoenix.”

William looked away, flushing. “Happy to entertain,” he said stiffly.

Undertaker could almost forgive him his careless cruelty toward Grell in the past. After all, if it weren’t for William T. Spears, he might be branded by now. He looked at Grell and he offered his hand. “Well, shall we? I’m curious to see where you live, and it’s been a good long while since I spent any significant amount of time in this realm. What little I’ve been able to see of the architecture looks to have changed a lot, and I didn’t get the opportunity to have a look around, the last time I was here.”

There was a boom of thunder that made the lights flicker and caused the chandelier overhead to tremble and sway, ever so slightly. Grell looked up with furrowed brows, his crimson hair spilling down his back as the last bobby pins fell free.

"I’d love to give you a tour, my love, but I don’t think the weather is right for it."

 

* * *

The weather did clear up a little bit as they left, but Grell was tired, hungry and in need of a bath and a change of clothes. He promised Undertaker that he would show him around the concentric circles of the city in the morning, if the weather anomalies behaved enough. The doorman at the entrance of his apartment building recognized him, and his eyebrows went up at the sight of his attire. He politely greeted him and he stared at Undertaker as if trying to figure out where he’d seen him before.

"He’s the legendary reaper," Grell supplied helpfully, feeling mischievous. "You know, the one from the statues in the Great Library and Dispatch Headquarters."

The doorman ogled the tall, silver reaper, looking him up and down before bowing hastily. “S-sir! What an _honor_! If there is anything I or any of the building staff can do to make your stay more pleasant, please don’t hesitate to ask!”

"Actually, you can have dinner brought to my apartment," Grell told him, fighting laughter at his bumbling, flustered reaction. He knew the man favored ladies because he was dating a girl from Personnel, but he looked as though he might make an exception for Undertaker. Grell looked up at his lover, unable to stop grinning.

"Darling, is Greek okay with you?"

Undertaker almost looked embarrassed. He was used to the life of the humble funeral director, after all. He looked like he preferred fear and hostility to this adulation he was receiving. “Whatever you suggest, lovely. Food of any kind is welcome in my belly.”

Feeling a little bad for drawing more attention to him when he was clearly as worn out as he was, Grell linked his arm through his and he looked at the doorman. “Then Greek, it is. Have the meal special brought up to us in…oh, two hours.”

Undertaker’s brows went up. “Two hours?” He didn’t seem impressed, and his stomach growled.

Grell batted his eyelashes at him. “Well, we _do_ need to get cleaned up and changed, don’t we? This will give us the time we need to…tidy up…before dinner.”

Undertaker caught on quickly, and he grinned. “Hmm, I could use a bit of tidying, now that you mention it.”

 

* * *

The first thing Grell did upon entering the apartment was to open some of the windows a crack to air it out. It wasn’t currently raining outside, but it was still windy and he had to be careful not to open them too far. He then checked his refrigerator and Undertaker candidly asked him if he was keeping a body in there when he opened it and the smell it them both.

"That would be the leftover roast," announced Grell with a grimace. "I’ll just bag it up and put it in the meat keeper, for now. I can throw it away tomorrow, when I can dump it for the garbage collectors to pick up."

Undertaker nodded and looked around with interest as Grell collected an airtight bag from one of the cabinets and placed the meat in it. While the redhead rummaged around in his icebox, Undertaker examined some of the odd things in his kitchen. Refrigerators were just getting popular when he retired, but he had never seen a toaster, blender or mixer before. Shinigami life had advanced and evolved quite a bit, since his day. The human world was slow to catch up, but it would eventually obtain similar technology, as time went by.

"What do all of these things do?" Undertaker asked curiously when Grell finished looking through his refrigerator and taking some things out of the freezer to thaw.

The redhead looked at the appliances he pointed out, and he grinned. “Don’t worry; I’ll show you how it all works later. For now, let’s go and get cleaned up while the strawberries thaw out. Allow me to give you the tour of my home.”

Endeared by the way he took his hand to lead him out of the kitchen, Undertaker gamely followed. There weren’t many rooms in the flat, but the ones it did have were spacious. There was one bedroom, one bathroom, the kitchen and dining room, and the living room that he’d already seen upon arrival. Grell explained that laundry services were part of the rent, and they sent someone thrice per week to take care of it.

Grell’s bathroom and bedroom were the most extravagant rooms in the apartment. It came as no surprise, really. The bathroom was where Grell made himself up each day, and the bedroom was his sanctuary—and where his walk-in wardrobe was kept. Grell’s choice of furniture and décor was French, and the tub was a huge, clawed thing on a small platform in the corner of the bathroom. A white marble vanity was next to the sink, with various makeup and hair accessories—including a curling iron. As for the bedroom, it had black wallpaper with red roses and it boasted a big, four-poster brass bed with a lacy red canopy over it, a matching ottoman, a chest of drawers and full-length mirror.

Grell ran them a bath while he showed him around the apartment, and when he was finished, he ushered him into the bathroom to undress and get cleaned up. Once he was settled in, Undertaker scooted back against the end of the sizeable tub to make more room for Grell, and he smiled up at him. “Aren’t you going to take your hair down, love?”

Grell reached up to pat absently at the pinned, crimson locks. He stepped into the tub to face Undertaker, and he sank into the steaming water with a sigh of pleasure. His pale skin blushed with the heat, drawing Undertaker’s admiring gaze.

"It’s habit," explained Grell. "I like to enjoy a leisurely soak just for the sake of soaking, now and then. I usually wash my hair in the shower, afterwards." He nodded at the separate shower against the opposite wall, enclosed in white curtains.

Undertaker scooted forward once Grell was settled into the tub, bending his knees. His pale hair floated around him in the water like damp cobwebs. “Come here, lovely. Let’s free that glorious mass of red from its bindings, shall we?”

Smiling, Grell wriggled closer to him, fitting his legs around Undertaker’s waist as the older reaper embraced him to pull him close. Now seated between his thighs, Grell kissed him languidly and pressed his groin against his beneath the water. He put his arms around Undertaker’s neck as the older reaper began to free his hair from the bobby pins holding it up.

"I can’t believe how fast your nails have grown, already," sighed Grell as Undertaker combed his fingers through his hair and caressed his scalp. They weren’t the two-inch claws he’d had before they set out on the ocean liner, but they were already about a half an inch long.

"Mmm, they always _have_ grown fast.” Undertaker smiled at the way Grell’s eyes fluttered shut with pleasure at his touch as he ran said nails down his naked back. The younger Shinigami’s hair spilled down his back and around his shoulders, to mingle in the water with Undertaker’s.

"You’ll need to show me how to operate some of those gadgets in your kitchen," murmured Undertaker against Grell’s throat as he pressed loving kisses over it. "I’m curious about that blending machine I saw."

"The blender," giggled the redhead. "It’s quite simple, really. You can puree things with it easily. I like to make fruit smoothies and daiquiris with it. Ooh, maybe I can mix a couple for us, to have with dinner?"

"That sounds like a wonderful idea," agreed the ancient. He tweaked a nipple and made his lover gasp. "Hand me the soap, would you?"

Grell twisted in his lap, turning to reach or the soap dish behind him. He paused and he glanced at Undertaker slyly, his green-gold eyes sparkling playfully beneath his crimson fringe.

"Hmm. I think I want to have some fun, before we get soap in the water," he announced. He then leaned back, and he steadily kept going until he submerged.

Undertaker raised a brow with interest as the redhead watched him from beneath the water, grinning like a shark. His hair floated around him like a cloud of blood, and Undertaker was reminded of a siren or a mermaid from legends.

"My, how intriguing," murmured the ancient with a grin of his own. "The kiss of a mermaid can mean either death or salvation for a sailor. Which does my lady intend for me, hmm?"

Grell lifted a hand out of the water and made a beaconing gesture, his gaze heavy lidded beneath the clear, sparkling liquid.  

Not one to decline an invitation like that, Undertaker shifted carefully and cupped Grell’s bottom to lift it a bit. He got his legs beneath him without disrupting the position of the redhead’s thighs around his waist, and then he leaned forward. He braced his hands on the sides of the tub as he lowered his face into the water to kiss Grell’s puckering lips. The redhead’s arms went around his neck to drag him down, and the breath in Undertaker’s lungs escaped in bubbles as he laughed.

It was fortunate that reapers didn’t need to breathe; else he might have drowned right then and there. He ignored the discomfort of water entering his lungs as he chuckled, and his amusement faded when his lips touched Grell’s. The younger reaper’s tongue darted past his lips and Undertaker sucked gently on it. He dropped one hand into the water and he pushed the blend of silver and red hair away to avoid pulling it, before resting it against the bottom of the tub to support him better.

He deepened the kiss and he briefly tensed as Grell reached down to grip his erection. He would have groaned with appreciation, if he had any breath to make the sound. Instead, an odd, gurgling purring noise erupted in his throat, and he pushed into the touch encouragingly. He kissed Grell more deeply and he shivered involuntarily when the hand began to stroke his length slowly.

He couldn’t really reciprocate the touch without unbalancing himself, so he settled for using his mouth, instead. It was interesting to kiss and lick Grell’s smooth skin through the warm water. He could honestly say he’d never done anything quite like this, and he was enjoying it immensely. His attentions brought him down to Grell’s chest and he caught his right nipple between his teeth, gently pinching it. He flicked his tongue against it delicately, making the redhead squirm. The rhythm of Grell’s stroking increased, and Undertaker began to hump his hand instinctively.

Neither of them noticed the water sloshing out onto the tiled platform, or the bath products they knocked over in their watery play.

 

* * *

They eventually came up for air—so to speak—and after dragging their wet, tangled hair out of their faces, they took turns bathing one another. They practically stayed lip-locked the whole time, and it occurred to Grell that they would never get so much hair properly washed and rinsed out in the tub.

"Shall we take this to the shower?" he suggested between kisses after rinsing Undertaker’s chest off. "There’s no point in trying to wash our hair in this tub…we’ll only end up saturating it in soapy water."

"Good point," agreed Undertaker with a smile. He eased Grell off of his lap and he stood up. Dripping, wet and utterly too gorgeous, he gazed down at him with his handsome features completely un-obscured, now that his hair was slicked back.

He offered a hand down to Grell. “Ladies first.”

Grell stared dumbly up at him for a minute, and his brows went up when his eyes settled on the impressive shaft of his protruding erection. The temptation to finish him off with his mouth was almost too strong to resist, but Undertaker chuckled and gave him a grinning reminder.

"The food will be arriving soon, my dear. We can finish enjoying other pleasures afterwards."

Blushing helplessly, Grell took his hand and allowed him to help him to his feet. He allowed himself one last adoring caress of the lean torso before stepping out of the tub and releasing Undertaker’s hand.

Unfortunately, Grell didn’t notice the sliver of soap lying on the soaked tiles beneath his foot, and as fate would have it, he stepped right onto it. He went down with a yell before he even knew what was happening, and he would have hit his head on the side of the tub if Undertaker hadn’t reacted fast enough to grab him from behind.

"Are you all right, love?" asked the older reaper, embracing him tightly.

Grell’s heart was pounding from the brief, startling moment, and his lover’s embrace didn’t serve to slow its rate. He turned his head up and back to grin up at the taller reaper, feeling a bit foolish. “Yes, thanks to you. I’m so fortunate to have a strong man with fast reflexes to catch me, before I fall.”

Undertaker shifted a little to balance himself, and he carefully stepped out of the tub to join Grell on the tiles. He scooped him up bride style and grinned lazily at him. “I’d better carry you, lovely—just to be safe.”

Grell sighed dramatically with approval, and he put his arms around his neck. The dripping curtain of his hair covered half of his body like red seaweed as his scarred, silver lover took him to the shower. He didn’t even mind his clumsy moment, since it resulted in being so pampered.

 

* * *

"And how does this work again?"

Grell glanced over at his lover as he selected a couple of glasses from the cupboard. Undertaker was standing over the blender curiously, looking at the unmixed content in the jar. He looked unreasonably dashing in his black satin bathrobe, and Grell smirked at the bit of chest exposed in the V down the front. He wanted to yank the garment open and lick Undertaker from head to toe…but they both needed to eat something, first.

"You just turn the dial to the first setting to start out with, and you flip switch—no, wait!"

Undertaker immediately followed his instructions, before Grell could explain the importance of applying the lid first. The blades turned, there was a grinding sound and bits of chopped strawberries, shards of ice and vodka sprayed the cabinets and poor Undertaker’s looming face. The ancient had enough common sense to turn the device back off immediately, and he looked at Grell with a mildly shocked expression on his comely, red-splattered face.

"I think it’s broken."

Undertaker looked like he’d just slaughtered someone, except he was adorably bewildered. Grell couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing. All the pent up fear over what would become of them went away in that one, silly moment, and he hastened across the kitchen to aid his confused love.

"Here," said Grell between snickers, snatching a fresh dishtowel from a drawer to wipe Undertaker’s face off. "You should let me demonstrate, before you use anything you aren’t familiar with, darling. Oh…"

He couldn’t resist licking some of it off, and when Undertaker started to grin, he knew he was forgiven for laughing at him. Thank _death_ the man had such a great sense of humor. If it had been William, he would have stormed out indignantly, red in the face and humiliated. Undertaker, however, was more than willing to laugh at himself. He chuckled along with Grell as the redhead wiped the mess from his hair and licked his face clean, and he kissed him midway through it to taste the strawberry mess on his lips.

"Tastes promising," murmured Undertaker with a grin. "I think I’ll leave the mixing to you from now on, though." He reached down to cup Grell’s scarlet-clad bottom, squeezing it through the material of his fluffy bathrobe.

Grell pressed up against him, loving the feel of his body. “Mm-hmm. I think both you and my kitchen are best off, that way.” He finished cleaning up the mess, but Undertaker would need to wash his hair again to get all of the red out of it. He reluctantly stepped out of his embrace to begin cleaning up the mess he’d made and start prepping another batch. Undertaker started to help him, but the doorbell rang and Grell checked the clock.

"That will be the food," guessed the redhead. "Why don’t you go answer it while I finish up here, my love?"

Undertaker nuzzled his cheek, making him want to forget about making daiquiris and finish what they started in the bathtub. “Happy to.”

Grell sighed and watched him go, his body tingling all over again just from those brief moments of contact with him. He was surely a lecherous reaper, to be so quickly turned on by the slightest romantic gestures, or the sight of a flash of male chest. Fortunately for him, Undertaker didn’t seem to mind. He began to grin as he gathered more ingredients and got to work again.

No, Undertaker never complained about his attentions at all.     

 

* * *

The wind was churning outside, making the trees around the estate bend and sway dangerously. Ciel Phantomhive stared out the window of his study contemplatively, and he watched the swollen, blood-red moon rise above the groaning tree line. He picked up a pawn from the chessboard he was mulling over, and he rolled it around in his palm.

"Sebastian."

A familiar, dark presence approached from the other side of the room. “ _Bocchan_?”

"Where else is this happening?"

Sebastian brought him the folded newspaper, and he laid it on the armrest beside Ciel and he turned the lamp up a notch. “There have been reports of tsunamis in the east, hitting parts of China and Japan. An ocean liner went down in the Gulf of Mexico when the water began to boil. Hurricanes have struck various coasts of the United States, there has been flooding in France, and there have been reports of destructive meteor showers in Russia. To put it plainly, my lord; it is everywhere.”

Ciel sighed. “I see. It seems that all the signs are there.” He wasn’t one to fall for religious hysterics, but he was beginning to think the people preaching in the streets of London might be right. The Apocalypse was coming.

"Sebastian, I’m giving you two days’ leave," Ciel decided after a few moments of thought.

The butler gazed at him with mildly curious, hooded eyes. “To what end, my lord?”

Ciel looked up at him with a clear blue eye, and he smirked ironically. “To go to hell, naturally. I want you to find out what you can from the demonic underworld. See if there is any news on your brethren’s side that would confirm the ravings of the doomsayers in our midst. Gather information and report back to me.”

"You wish me to leave your side for two days, with these anomalies occurring?" Sebastian frowned as though he didn’t care for that idea.

Ciel smirked again, guessing he wasn’t as concerned for his well being as he was over the possibility of something happening to end him while he was gone, before he could devour his soul. “I’m sure we’ll manage while you’re away. We didn’t hire the servants for their housekeeping skills, after all.”

Sebastian smirked back, his handsome face relaxing into amusement. “No, we did not. Are you so certain you wish to be left with them to rely on for your comforts, though? As I recall, young master was none too fond of the last meal Baldroy prepared, and Mey-Rin drew a scalding bath that same evening.”

Ciel waved it away. “I think Tanaka can assist with correcting them, while you are away. The place won’t fall down around my ears in two days, Sebastian.”

"I wouldn’t be so certain of that," sighed the butler sincerely.

"I’ll handle it," insisted Ciel. "I want you to go now, before this gets any worse. We need to know what’s happening and what to expect, if it’s at all possible."

Sebastian bowed gracefully at the waist. “Yes, my lord.”

With that said, darkness gathered around him like a cloud, and raven feathers circulated in the air where he stood. Ciel watched as he faded from sight, gone like a nightmare that would return no matter where he might run or hide. Not that Ciel Phantomhive had any intention of doing either. He had one desire alone, and that was to avenge what was done to him and his family.

It wouldn’t do at all for the end of the world to come before he won his game.

 

* * *

After enjoying a delightful meal together, they pushed the dining cart outside into the hallway, and Grell introduced his companion to the joys of modern television. Undertaker was quite fascinated with the picture tube, and he grinned with boyish curiosity when Grell showed him how to operate it.

"A lot of channels appear to be down right now," mused the redhead as he turned the knob to tune into different broadcasts, "but they do sometimes air human films, like that Chaplain fellow you like so much. Most of it is just news broadcasts and Shinigami soaps, though."

"Soaps?" Undertaker cocked his head quizzically and he leaned forward on the sofa to squint at the black and white picture.

"Soap operas," elaborated Grell with a smile for him. "Rather like a drama play, but they are ongoing series."

"I see." Judging by the way his eyes were narrowed beneath the parted fringe of his bangs, however, he obviously did not.

"Why don’t you put on your glasses?" suggested Grell. He finally found a channel with a clear enough signal—though it crackled now and then with static. It was a news broadcast relaying everything that was currently happening in the mortal realm.

Undertaker grimaced slightly at the suggestion. “I’m not keen on getting dependent on those again.”

Grell straightened up and walked over to him, taking a seat in his lap. He put his arms around his neck and he kissed him softly as Undertaker impulsively embraced him around the waist. “You won’t become a slave overnight if you put them on, my love…but I can’t say I blame you for your reluctance. Just remember, we could be up against angels. I’m the last reaper to preach caution as you know, but I’d rather you take any edge you may be able to get.”

"Hmm." Undertaker sighed, and he looked over at the case he’d set on the coffee table. He’d been looking at his glasses often since receiving them, and Grell knew he was torn. "It’s not just the vision correction, my dear. Those glasses represent chains, to me."

Grell nibbled his lip, understanding where he was coming from. He adjusted his own glasses and he shrugged. “Then try to think of it this way: you can use that chain against your enemy. Chains can do quite a bit of damage, you know.” He grinned. “Particularly when attached to a saw.”

Undertaker chuckled, and he looked at him with admiration. “I like the way you think, lovely.” He looked at the case lying on the table, and he gave a nod at it. “Be a dear and hand them over to me, would you?”

Grell obligingly leaned away to reach for the case. He opened it and held it out for his lover, and he watched as the deft, long fingers plucked the eyewear from inside. Undertaker opened the glasses, stared at them for a moment, and then fit them over his face. He closed his eyes as he did so, and he opened them slowly once the glasses were in place. He looked around, his silver lashes fluttering as he adjusted to the change in visual capability.

"My, that’s quite a difference," muttered Undertaker, his compelling gaze flicking here and there. "I can actually _see_ the grains in the walls. It’s been a good, long while since I last saw this clearly.”

Grell didn’t reply. He was too busy staring at the utter hotness that was Undertaker in glasses. The silver half-frames complimented his coloring and the shape of his face and eyes, and Grell silently praised Lawrence Anderson for his artistry with glasses design.

"This may cause me some headaches as I get used to—"

Undertaker didn’t get to finish his sentence. Grell’s mouth descended to his for a passionate kiss, and he returned it instinctively. Grell purred in his throat and combed his fingers through his hair. He was sitting in the lap of the _Legendary Reaper_. He wasn’t just the sweetest, most romantic lover he could ever ask for…he was a _Legend_. The impression was never so strong as it was now, seeing Undertaker wearing his original glasses.

The statues and paintings really didn’t do him justice.

"Did I flip a switch somewhere without realizing it?" teased Undertaker with a grin as Grell’s mouth left his to kiss its way down his throat. He gasped softly with surprise when Grell yanked the material of his robe open to bare his chest.

"God, you’re sexy," answered the redhead with adoration, between kisses and licks. He bit down hard enough to leave teeth marks and draw blood on the pale throat, but the injury would heal without so much as a scar—unlike the battle wounds Undertaker still bore from death scythes. Undertaker dragged his nails over Grell’s back, and he made a low sound of desire in his throat.

"Tell me the stories behind these, would you?" Grell licked the one encircling the taller man’s throat, smearing the blood he’d drawn over it.  

Undertaker combed his fingers through the nearly dried crimson hair. “There isn’t much to tell, my dear. When I put my glasses aside, they came for me. They wished me to relinquish my death scythe, but by then I’d carried it for so long, I couldn’t bear to be parted with it. There was a rather gruesome battle, and I walked—or rather, _crawled_ —away with my scythe.”

Grell parted his robe further, and he grinned as he wriggled down to lavish attention on the ancient’s chest. “And what about the ones who attacked you?” He licked the long scar that snaked diagonally over Undertaker’s pecs, down to his abdomen.

Undertaker smirked. “They didn’t walk _or_ crawl away at all. Dispatch lost good officers, that day.”

Grell shivered with delight. It probably wasn’t healthy to be so turned on by the danger this man represented, but he was. He slid down, slithering his body until he was between Undertaker’s knees, kneeling on the floor. “Would you have killed me that day, when we came to apprehend you?”

Undertaker didn’t answer.

Grell looked up at him, and he ran his nails over his torso, hard enough to leave scratches. “Would you?”

Undertaker reached down to stroke his hair, looking completely somber and very, very sexy to Grell. “If I had known what they had in store for me upon my capture, yes. Do you hold that against me, love?”

Grell shook his head, and he untied Undertaker’s robe to expose more of him. He smiled seductively up at him as he gripped his revealed arousal and began to stroke it. “I think I would have been disappointed in you, had you said ‘no’. A wolf should never apologize for going through the throat, my love.”

Undertaker grinned at him, his breath quickening slightly with pleasure as Grell fondled him. “You see me as a wolf then?”

Grell nodded. “If you were an animal, I think that’s what you would be. A beautiful, deadly silver wolf.” He looked at the flushed tip of Undertaker’s stiffened sex longingly. He had yet to taste him, there. He’d never had the nerve to ask, before. “Darling, can I…kiss it?”

Grell braced himself, fully expecting Undertaker to reject his offer. After all, what man would want risk being sucked off by someone with a mouth full of teeth like _his_? Even someone allegedly insane should—

"I’ve been looking forward to such an offer from you," replied Undertaker softly, startling Grell so much that he ogled him. The older reaper laughed softly and caressed his face. "What, did you think ol’ Undertaker would turn you down? Tsk, tsk."

Grell swallowed, suddenly nervous. He knew it took a significant amount of trust for a man to let him put his mouth over his cock. “I wondered if my teeth might give you cause for hesitation.”

Undertaker traced his lips with a fingertip, and he gently pushed down on the bottom one to reveal some of said teeth. He stroked his finger over them and he smiled softly. “I trust you. I think you enjoy me intact too much, to get careless and bite anything off.”

Grell ordinarily would have chuckled in response to the pun, but he was feeling too romantic, too horny and too…well…touched. He ran his free hand over Undertaker’s left thigh, feeling the lean muscles contract slightly under his touch. “I’ll be gentle,” he promised.

Undertaker grinned as if he found that amusing, but he didn’t say anything. He stroked his hair and watched with quiet interest as Grell started by licking the clear little drop of moisture from the tiny hole in the tip, and his breath expulsed softly as the redhead pulled down on the shaft to expose the head more. Undertaker made a soft, barely perceptible sound as Grell traced the cap with his tongue, and then licked down the underside of the shaft. He teased him for a little while, pressing soft kisses along the length of the organ and tracing the ridges with his tongue.

He gripped the shaft again and he began to stroke it slowly, and he kissed flushed tip when it emerged, smiling with delight. Undertaker’s breath caught when Grell puckered up and gently sucked the sensitive glans into his mouth, circling the slit with the tip of his tongue. He kept his lips over his teeth to cushion them, and though he couldn’t press down as much as a person with normal teeth without cutting up the inside of his mouth, he’d mastered techniques to get around that. He sucked firmly and he swirled his tongue all around the head, making the length of the cock twitch with sensation. He continued to stroke him carefully as he worked his lips and tongue around the taught flesh, paying careful attention to his reactions.

"Oh, you little minx," said Undertaker in a husky tone of approval.

His thighs began to tense involuntarily as Grell gained confidence and began to bob his head, turning and angling it to vary the stimulation. Grell massaged the inner muscles of his thighs one at a time with his free hand while he pleasured him, using every skill he’d ever learned to convince Undertaker it was definitely worth letting him do this whenever he liked. He whimpered unconsciously at the taste of him as some salty essence dribbled out, provoked by Undertaker’s rising excitement.

Undertaker’s stomach began to tense, and he started to gently move his hips in time with Grell’s mouth and hands. To his credit, he didn’t try to ram himself down Grell’s throat, and the redhead was inclined to believe that was more due to Undertaker’s good manners than any fear he might accidentally bite him.

Grell was throbbing beneath his robes, aching to feel his lover inside of him. He stopped kneading Undertaker’s thighs to reach down and fondle himself, shutting his eyes with bliss. Undertaker’s breath began to shiver tellingly, and groans of pleasure escaped his lips. Grell put a bit more intensity into his attentions, sucking a little harder and moving his hand and mouth faster. He pleasured himself faster too, sliding his gripping hand back and forth over his taught flesh and moaning around Undertaker’s sex.

Undertaker’s breath hissed between his teeth and he offered a husky, unsteady warning to him. “Grell…love…I’m going to…arrive.”

Grell didn’t even try to pull away. He doubled his efforts and he didn’t mind when Undertaker groaned and curled his fingers into his hair, inadvertently pulling a little bit. The hardened flesh bucked in his mouth, and Undertaker’s seed hit the back of his throat as it spurted. Grell swallowed greedily and he murmured in delight, sucking until it stopped twitching in his mouth and licking the head clean with tender care.

He looked up at his companion to find his head lolling back against the back of the couch, and he smiled in satisfaction. Now that he’d conquered his love in one of his favorite ways to do so, he felt like preening a bit. Though he hadn’t reached satisfaction yet himself, Grell was quite pleased to climb back up and settle himself comfortably into Undertaker’s lap. He kissed his jaw and ear, grinning at the sound of him catching his breath.

"I know," he sighed smugly. "I’m fabulous, aren’t I?"

"You are," agreed the ancient gamely, his chest rising and falling heavily. He lifted his head off the back of the couch and gazed at him with heavy-lidded, sated eyes. "You’ve mastered skills with that pretty little mouth that I couldn’t have predicted."

Grell cuddled against him, loving the flush in his cheeks and the way the glasses framed his gorgeous eyes. “I’d like a kiss, but I understand if you don’t want to, seeing as I just finished you off.”

Undertaker cupped his chin without question and he brought his mouth to Grell’s, kissing him with lazy, sensual passion. “My dear,” he said breathlessly between kisses, “you deserve kisses and so much more.”

His hand moved up Grell’s thigh, and the redhead murmured in pleasure when it cupped his stiffened groin through the robe.

"I think I would like to see to this, now." Undertaker grinned at him, and Grell wriggled eagerly in his lap as he slipped his hand into his robe to return the favor.

So much for his initial plans to watch the news and see what else was happening in the mortal realms. Time passed more slowly in the upper planes than it did on Earth, and for all he knew, several days had passed already since he and Undertaker left. Grell couldn’t bring himself to care about that right now, though. All that existed for him at the moment was Undertaker, with his hair, his lips, his body, his skilled hands and his sexy, sexy voice.

He sighed and gave in, allowing his body to drink in every pleasurable, erotic sensation his lover was willing to give him—and that was quite a lot. He didn’t even notice when the electricity flickered on and off with the storm that had picked up again outside. Undertaker was all he cared about, right now.

 

* * *

-To be continued  


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

Ciel looked at the selection of jewelry laid out before him, and he frowned. “Mey-Rin, come here.”

The maid immediately joined his side. “Yes, M’lord?”

"You’re a girl. Tell me which of these you think Elizabeth would like the most."

Mey-Rin pushed her big, round glasses further up on her nose and she peered over his shoulder at the selection of fine ladies’ jewelry. “Oh, it’s all so lovely, young master!” She beamed and absently twiddled a lock of chestnut hair hanging down from the fluffy pigtails she kept it in.

"Yes, yes, they’re lovely," Ciel sighed impatiently. He looked up at her with a clear blue gaze. "But which do you think best suits my fiancé?"

"Hmm." She considered the various pieces, and she pointed out a whimsical set of pink diamond jewelry, made to resemble flowers. "That one. That definitely suits the Lady Elizabeth!"

He looked at it, and he nodded in agreement. He’d been eyeing that set himself, thinking it served Lizzy’s love of “cute” nicely, but he was no girl. “Yes, I see what you mean.” He nodded at the store clerk. “I’ll take this set, if you please.”

Unseen by him, Mey-Rin turned to look out the window, where the footman waited with an expansive umbrella. Snake’s eyes met hers through the glass and he offered the tiniest, shy little smile before blushing and looking away. She blushed as well, and she jumped when Ciel called her name.

"Mey-Rin, take this."

She turned and took the bag from him, giving a brief curtsey. “Yes, sir!”

Ciel adjusted his cravat. “Let’s go. Elizabeth’s train should arrive, soon.”

There was a scream from somewhere outside, and Ciel frowned. He went to the door and found Snake staring at something at the end of the block. “What is it?” demanded the Earl as his maid clamored up behind him.

Snake pointed a white-gloved hand at a pair of struggling men down the street. “That man is trying to eat the other man…says Oscar.” The one snake that Ciel had allowed him to bring was draped over the footman’s shoulder, its tongue flicking in the air.

Ciel almost asked him what in bloody blue hell he was talking about, but then he looked where he was pointing and he saw a rather haggard looking fellow biting into the neck of a struggling gentleman. Blood spilled down the gentleman’s fine, pinstriped suit and he made another gurgling cry, before going limp. Part of his throat ripped away as he fell, to dangle from the mouth of his assailant.

"God help us!" someone yelled, and there was a woman’s shrill, agonized scream from just a bit further down the street.

As Ciel and his servants watched, several more people were attacked. At first he took the assailants to be homeless, unkempt wretches that must have decided to begin rioting, but then he saw the flesh falling off of one of them and his eye went wide.

"They appear to be coming from the cemetery…says Oscar," observed Snake, speaking through his pet reptile as always. Mey-Rin stepped closer to the exotic footman, and her hand sought out his covertly.

Recognizing the attackers as the undead things that they were, Ciel groaned. “Not _this_ again. I _knew_ it was a mistake to help him!”

"S-sir?" Mey-Rin squeaked.

"Nothing," Ciel sighed. He tensed up a moment later. "Lizzy. Come, you two…we need to get to the carriage and leave, right away!"

Snake kept pace with the young lord and he held the umbrella over his head as they ran through the rainy streets of London. Mey-Rin took up the rear, and she shrieked when they passed a zombie that was making a meal of an old woman.

"M-my lord, they’re _dead_!”

"Yes," agreed the boy with remarkable calm, "and so are we, if we don’t hurry. Keep moving!"

They made it to the carriage further down the street, where the chaos thankfully hadn’t yet reached. Baldroy sat in the driver’s seat of the carriage and he yelled out a greeting when he saw the three of them running toward him.

"What’s the hurry?"

Ciel surprised Mey-Rin by opening the carriage door for her and ushering her inside first. “The city is under attack by zombies,” he announced. “Take us to the train station immediately, and don’t stop for _anything_! Snake, be sure your pistols are loaded, and should any of those creatures get close enough to touch this carriage, you shoot them in the head!”

"Wait…Zombies?" repeated Baldroy with wide eyes. His cigarette fell out of his mouth a moment later when he witnessed a man get cannibalized a moment later, just across the street. "Holy hell!"

"Hell isn’t holy," snapped Ciel impatiently as he got in after Mey-Rin. "We’re in! Drive, Baldroy!"

The “cook” wasted no time. He snapped the reins and the two-horse team lurched into motion. Inside the carriage, Ciel braced himself and he checked his pistol. He glanced at Mey-Rin, who was looking out the window of the carriage.

"I think it’s time you rid yourself of those glasses," he said, "and take up arms."

Mey-Rin’s expression hardened, and she nodded. She tugged the glasses off of her face and handed them over to him, and then she knelt down on the carriage floor to flip her seat open. She withdrew a case from inside of it and opened it to reveal the newest model of a very deadly sniper rifle, which she began to put together while Ciel kept watch for danger. When the firearm was assembled, she loaded it and glanced at her master with narrowed brown eyes.

"Count on me, Young Master."

Ciel nodded in approval. “I shall.”

 

* * *

"M-mistress?" Paula looked around hopelessly, her eyes wide in her pale face as the malevolent din pressed in closer.

Elizabeth Midford had a foil in each hand, and she had already cut down two attackers that made it through the rest of the terrified passengers and station workers to them.

"This way!" Called the blonde girl. "Don’t panic, Paula! I won’t let them hurt you!"

Unfortunately, keeping that promise might prove more difficult than words suggested. All of the recent dead in London seemed to have risen against the living, and though she had fought zombies before—far too recently for her liking—Elizabeth wasn’t so certain she could save herself and her handmaid alone. Unsurprisingly, her thoughts weren’t really on her own peril, but on her fiancé.

"Oh, I hope Ciel’s all right!"

"W-we’re the ones about to be eaten, milady!" Paula shrieked and smacked at a reaching zombie with her closed umbrella. Elizabeth promptly put her blades to use, stabbing the creature in the throat with one foil, and in the eye with another. The second strike disabled it, and it fell to the ground, twitching.

"Come on," urged the girl. "We need to reach higher ground! If these are anything like the uglies on Campania, they can’t climb!"

She practically dragged the handmaid with her to a nearby ticket booth, and she started to tell her to lift her up so that she could get on the roof and pull her up behind, when she heard gunfire and the whinny of horses. She looked to see a carriage charging down the street to the station, driven by a familiar, rugged blond man. One of the doors was open and she saw Ciel’s maid firing a long rifle at the zombie hordes, while the strange footman with patches of scales on his skin shot the nearer ones with a pistol.

"Lizzy!" shouted Ciel Phantomhive as the carriage stopped at the curb. He was inside the vehicle, behind Mey-Rin. "Hurry and get in!"

"Oh, drat!" complained the young lady. "I hate for him to see me like this!"

"Please, just get in, Lady Midford!" urged Paula. "You look lovely! Just go!"

The zombie danger certainly was more pressing than looking cute for her betrothed, at the moment. Elizabeth sheathed her foils, gathered her skirts and ran to the carriage, with her handmaid close at her heels. They got inside and Baldroy chucked a flaming Molotov cocktail into the zombie masses—unfortunately burning a couple of living victims that got caught up in the mob, as well. Mey-Rin blew the skulls of two zombies apart, while Snake shot one in the face when it got too close to the carriage. Ciel covered the two young women climbing into the carriage and he yelled for Baldroy to get a move on, once they were inside.

The Phantomhive coach sped through the streets of London—which were now in chaos as the risen dead sought out the flesh of the living. 

 

* * *

The next morning, Undertaker was surprisingly business-like. He helped Grell make breakfast, learning how to use the kitchen appliances with impressive speed. After eating, he asked Grell to go up to the rooftop with him and spar, while the skies were relatively calm. That in itself certainly didn’t bother the redhead. He _loved_ to spar and fight, and he knew Undertaker would provide a more than worthy challenge, to him. What got him disconcerted was being told to remove his glasses for the exercise.

“ _Excuse me_?” he sputtered indignantly pausing in the act of lacing up his boots. It felt a bit odd to be back in his usual male attire again, but he knew he would fight better in it than in a dress. “Did you just say that you want me to fight without my glasses?”

Undertaker nodded, sliding his fingers along the crescent blade of his scythe to check for burrs—though he wasn’t likely to find any. Grell found himself staring. The slow glide of his fingertips over the glinting metal was unreasonably sensual, to him. It made him think of the way Undertaker handled his body when they made love, and he flushed.

"You need to practice doing without," insisted the older reaper. "Learn to use your other senses. You’ll be that much stronger, if you do."

Grell sighed. “Well, I think this is a _terrible_ idea.”

"In what sense?" challenged Undertaker. He stopped caressing his blade and he circled around the counter island, reaching out with one hand to cup Grell’s chin. "I would not have this pretty face carved up by the angelic host, if they bring the fight to us. Humor me and at least _try_ to hone your other battle senses. If your glasses get damaged or lost during a fight, you may thank me for it.”

Feeling a bit like a brat, Grell lowered his gaze and nodded. “Oh, all right. I suppose it can’t hurt anything.”

Undertaker smiled and rewarded him with a kiss on the lips. “That’s the spirit. Don’t worry though; I’ll be suffering a similar handicap. After we train without glasses I need to practice _with_ them.”

"How is that a handicap to you?" If anything, Grell thought it would be more of a handicap to _him_ , because he found the sight of the man in glasses so alluring it might distract him.

"Depth perception is different with the glasses, for one thing," answered the older reaper. "I recognize the tactical advantage it could bring me to fight with clear vision, but I haven’t relied on these old eyes of mine in ages. I’ve got to re-learn how to use them in a fight, just as you’ve got to re-learn how to go without."

"Why bother with them at all, then?" puzzled Grell. He grimaced as soon as he said it.

~Shut up, you fool! You might convince him not to ever put them on again, and that would be a real tragedy!~

Reminding himself to think with the head on his shoulders rather than the one in his pants, Grell regarded Undertaker with what he hoped was a sincere look of clinical interest.

"Because what could be coming is nothing to play around with," answered the Undertaker somberly. "True, I can hold my own in a fight without the benefit of visual aids, but I know I can do a lot better _with_ my full visual potential than I can without.”

Grell shivered involuntarily, imagining the devastation this man could cause. “If you could put a percentage value on your fighting strength without glasses, what would your estimate be?”

"Hmm." Undertaker fell back into the habit of tapping his teeth with his fingernails as he worked it out in his head. He shrugged. "Oh, I’d say around sixty-five percent."

Grell ogled him. He’d expected a higher number than that. “So all the times I’ve seen you in action so far, you were only at sixty-five percent of your full potential?”

Undertaker shrugged again, completely blasé about it. “Being able to see clearly _does_ make a difference, love. Blind fighting is a nice skill to fall back on, but I’ll admit my precision leaves something to be desired. You may never get to see me at my full potential, given how little time I’m likely to have to train before the fight comes to us. If it happens at all, it will happen soon. I’m not the reaper I used to be.”

Grell found that a sad statement, but not because he believed it meant Undertaker was diminished in any way. He put his arms around his waist and gazed up at him sincerely. “Perhaps you aren’t the man you were in your youth, but who amongst us is? I used to be an arrogant, self-assured know-it-all when I was starting out.”

Undertaker grinned teasingly at him. “Not a bit like you are today, eh?”

Grell nipped warningly at his throat, drawing a low noise of surprise from him. He licked away the spot of blood he’d drawn, and Undertaker stroked his hair and murmured with approval. “Mmm, now isn’t the time for play, lovely.”

Grinning now, Grell finished cleaning off the salty blood and he pulled back a little to look up at him again. “Everyone changes, Undertaker. It can be subtle, or it can be drastic, but nobody stays exactly the same forever.”

Undertaker traced his features with the back of his nails, and his smile softened. “No, I suppose not.”

"So don’t diminish your own worth," advised Grell.

"I wasn’t trying to, my dear. I’m merely being honest. The Shinigami seem to expect a living legend. What they’re actually getting is an old veteran who’s simply been around long enough to learn most of the tricks."

"Hmm, I still think you’re too modest," Grell sighed, but he smiled at him and he kissed the fading bite mark he’d made on his throat. "But there’s a certain charm to that. If what I’ve seen you do is only a little over half of your full potential, then you’re going to be bloody _glorious_ without your vision impaired.”

Undertaker chuckled. “Or bloody clumsy. Again, I remind you that I haven’t worn the glasses for a very long time. The world looks quite strange to me, with them on.” He shook his bangs aside a bit and he winked at him. “Although I do enjoy being able to see _you_ clearly, even when you’re on the other side of the room.”

"Mm, charmer." Grell combed his fingers through the taller man’s long, silver hair. "We’d best get up there, while the weather holds. I don’t fancy the thought of getting soaked or hit by lightning."

"Right," agreed Undertaker with a nod. "Shall we?"

 

* * *

"You’re still using your eyes too much," advised Undertaker as Grell barely blocked his attack. "You have to learn to _listen_ , Grell.”

"I _am_ listening,” snapped the redhead, flushed with humiliation. To his credit, Undertaker wasn’t teasing him or belittling his fighting skills. He was strictly business; correcting him whenever he did anything wrong and encouraging him when he did something right.

"You are listening in conjunction with your sight," said Undertaker. His blade cut a deadly arc through the air, singing eerily as it went. The man’s death scythe sounded like the moaning of the wind when he slashed with it, and even a bloodthirsty, practically fearless reaper such as Grell Sutcliff was prone to chills when he heard it.

"You can do this, Grell," Undertaker insisted when the redhead ducked and rolled away. "You’ve fought me before. Don’t hold back!"

Grell would have dearly liked to follow that advice, but it was hard for him to get in the “killing zone”, under these circumstances. He had always believed that he could reap a man he loved if he had to, but he found it impossible to put his mind in the right place for this exercise. This was his lover, not his enemy, and he—

Undertaker’s boot connected with Grell’s face without warning, knocking his troubled thoughts right out of his head. He fell to the ground, stunned, and his scythe went spinning and sputtering away. He put a gloved hand against his smarting jaw and he rolled onto his side, looking up at the silver Shinigami standing over him with bewildered, hurt eyes.

The cold, lethal metal of Undertaker’s blade pressed against his throat warningly, and as he looked up the length of the classic, ancient weapon at its wielder, Grell saw no mercy in his cold, flashing eyes.

"Fight or die, Grell Sutcliff," Undertaker said, his long, pale hair whipping in the wind. "Your enemies won’t give you quarter."

Angry with him for daring to strike his face, Grell scowled. “You bastard.”

Undertaker smirked, and he lifted his scythe as if to strike. Grell took his chance and he rolled away toward his dropped chainsaw. He caught it, got to his feet and set it roaring to life again. He jumped over the taller reaper’s next swing and rather than try to put more distance between them, he charged him. Undertaker dodged his attack, but Grell followed up with a strike from his elbow. He popped him hard in the jaw, repaying him for the kick from earlier and making him stagger.

He took the opening immediately, thrusting with his chainsaw with the blind intention of sawing into this gorgeous creature’s torso. He realized what he was doing at the last minute, but it was too late to stop his attack. He nearly sighed in relief when Undertaker arched his back gracefully and practically danced aside, suffering nothing worse than a torn hem on his jacket for it.

Grell hollered in protest when he got punched in the face in retaliation, and he kicked out hard. The heel of his boot struck Undertaker in the side, and he could have sworn he heard and felt a crunch. The snath of Undertaker’s scythe blocked his next attack, and there was an ugly, screeching sound as his saw spun against it. Grell stared into Undertaker’s eyes angrily, trying to understand his betrayal. He saw no malice in those thick-lashed eyes, nor did he see any satisfaction. Instead, he saw a grim resolve and a fierce love.

The blows to his face were a deliberate attempt to provoke him into fighting with real passion, and it had worked. He thought he saw some regret in those gorgeous eyes, a split second before Undertaker’s knee connected with his solar plexus and drove the breath from his lungs. Grell gagged and staggered away, and Undertaker advanced with a neutral, unsmiling expression on his scarred face. He wasn’t enjoying this. Undertaker usually smiled when he fought—even laughed and came out with witty comments. He was silent, somber and void of humor, now.

Grell recovered quickly, panting for breath impulsively even though he didn’t need air to function. He got into a defensive stance and squinted at his opponent, watching closely for his next move. He’d lost the brief advantage of close range, and now he was back where he started again. He saw a trickle of red at the corner of Undertaker’s mouth, and he heard him cough when he drew breath to speak.

"Don’t look," advised the ancient. " _Listen_ , Grell. Smell. Taste.”

His simplistic logic made an odd sort of sense. If he concentrated, Grell could indeed smell Undertaker’s scent on the wind. Though his footfalls were typically light as a Shinigami trademark, Grell could hear them against the cement. He had no bloody idea what Undertaker meant by “taste”, though. While he certainly didn’t mind giving Undertaker or Bassy a lick on the cheek in a fight, he had no intention of making that a part of his regular routine.

This time, Grell sensed the attack coming and though he couldn’t see the swinging scythe clearly, he felt the breeze of its passing against his stomach as he hopped away. He began to run, trying to put some distance between himself and his deadly opponent. Undertaker gave chase, and Grell leaped up on the structure covering the stairwell leading back inside. He jumped back down immediately as Undertaker approached, and rather than jump away from him, he jumped directly _at him_ , with his chainsaw leading the way.

There was a teeth-jarring clash as their scythes connected, and Grell forced Undertaker back against the brick wall of the stairwell. The skies opened up and it began to rain on the two struggling reapers. Grell pressed the attack grimly, snarling with effort to prevent the stronger man from breaking away or striking out with other limbs. Undertaker stared into his eyes behind the crossed weapons, and blood steadily trickled from his mouth. He suddenly smiled, and Grell found the sight so distracting that he relaxed his guard for just one moment.

He saw Undertaker’s eyes rushing at him, just as the taller man forced both of their weapons down. Grell saw stars as his lover’s forehead connected solidly with his nose, just hard enough to daze him and make it bleed. His chainsaw was knocked out of his hands again, and he found himself spun and shoved up against the wall he’d just had Undertaker backed against, moments ago.

"I’m afraid you lose," announced Undertaker in a slightly rough voice. His hand was like a vice around Grell’s throat, holding him in place as he pressed the point of his scythe’s blade against the redhead’s chest, over his heart. "Do you yield?"

Grell forced a wild grin at him. “Never.”

Undertaker stared mutely for a moment, and Grell actually began to wonder if he would follow through and reap him. The ancient suddenly smiled, retracted the scythe and released his throat.

"Brilliant answer, love."

Grell stared up at him, aroused, angry and confused all at once. “You struck me in the face.”

Undertaker nodded. “I apologize for that. For the purpose of this training exercise, I couldn’t behave as a gentleman.”

Grell slapped him across the face.

Undertaker took the blow stoically, his now dampened bangs whipping to the side with the motion of his head. He looked at Grell as lightning flashed overhead, and he smiled tenderly at him. “Feel better now, lovely?”

All of Grell’s anger melted away, and he cupped the back of Undertaker’s head to draw his mouth down for a kiss. It wasn’t a gentle kiss asking for or granting forgiveness; it was passionate and bruising, cutting both their mouths on Grell’s teeth. The rain fell harder and Undertaker pressed tighter against him, shielding him from it with his body. His tongue thrust into Grell’s mouth demandingly, salty with their mingled blood. Grell surrendered to it and he moaned into the kiss as Undertaker wedged a thigh between his legs, pressing against his growing arousal.

There was a brilliant flash of lightning overhead, followed by a boom of thunder that shook the very air around them. Undertaker withdrew his mouth despite Grell’s protests, and he offered him a pained grin as he retrieved his scythe for him and gave it over.

"We ought to get back inside now," suggested Undertaker.

Grell nodded in agreement, having a mind to finish what they’d started. His aches and pains were fading, but as he put his arm around the taller reaper, he noticed the way he grunted. Remembering the kick to the ribs he’d given him earlier, Grell looked up at him as he wiped the blood from his mouth on his sleeve.

"Do you require medical attention, darling?"

Undertaker shook his head. “No, I just need to get into a comfortable position while the rib repairs itself.” He smirked at him. “You kick really hard, my dear.”

Grell smirked back. “That’s what you get for striking a lady in the face. Let’s get out of this rain and back inside, so I can nurse you.”

 

* * *

Grell got his shirt jacket and undershirt off first, before getting Undertaker to stretch out on the sofa. He winced at the purple bruise on his torso, noting the shape of his boot. He really _had_ kicked him hard. Undertaker was smiling up at him benignly, evidently forgiving him for the abuse.

"I’ll put together a cold compress for it," promised Grell. He tried not to think of how sexy he looked, lying there bare-chested in his black pants and thigh-high leather boots. He retrieved his glasses from the coffee table and put them on so that he could see what the bloody hell he was doing, and he swore when the phone in the kitchen began to ring.

"Be back in a minute, my handsome lunatic," promised Grell, blowing a kiss to Undertaker.

"Take your time," sighed the older Shinigami, shutting his eyes.

Grell went into the kitchen to snatch the phone off its cradle on the wall. “Hello?”

"Sutcliff, I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour," William’s voice said on the other end. "Undertaker’s personal phone is ready for him to pick up at Headquarters, and we have a request for him. Please bring him in as soon as possible."

Grell scowled in annoyance. “Haven’t we asked enough of him? He’s already agreed to fight by our side if these rebel angels make it through to our realm. Why can’t you just leave him alone for a while?”

"Because there is every chance that we could be facing Armageddon," answered William coolly, "and Undertaker is the last of the True Born, not to mention the oldest Shinigami warrior alive. Any day now, we could be all that stands between a host of enemies and the Great Library. I think requesting that he impart some of his combat knowledge onto our ranks is a reasonable request."

"So you want him to act as an instructor?" Grell looked through the archway leading into the living room. He had to admit, Undertaker made a splendid tutor, but his methods might be a bit violent for fledglings. Then again, maybe they _needed_ that sort of brutality to prepare for what was to come.

"We could use any edge we can get," William said. "We have no way of knowing how long we have to prepare, but I think Undertaker’s presence as an instructor will not only improve skills, but bolster morale."

Grell sighed. He couldn’t really refute that. Everyone that knew who Undertaker was beneath the guise of the creepy funeral director looked upon him with awe. His presence would certainly inspire a lot of reapers to do their very best. He just hated to see his lover used.

"So let me understand this correctly," Grell said, turning his back to the dining room and living room again. "Management—who wanted to condemn him to stasis and brand him for life—now wants Undertaker to be the official Shinigami mascot. He was deemed too dangerous and insane to be left free, but they want to put him in a position as an instructor?"

William didn’t even try to rationalize it. “Yes.”

"I would like to tell them to fuck themselves sideways, Will," said the redhead bluntly, "but that isn’t my decision, sadly. It’s up to my gorgeous Undertaker."

"Then please speak with him about it," said the supervisor. "His company phone is waiting."

Grell sighed and hung up the phone. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he was embraced from behind, without warning. “Thank you,” said a droning voice in his ear, “for standing up for my dignity.”

Velvety lips brushed against his temple, and Grell blushed, relaxing against the taller man’s embrace. “I’m going to buy you a bell to wear around the house,” he decided, turning his head and tilting it back to look up at him. “You sneak even more than you loom.”

Undertaker laughed softly and rocked him. “Mm, I’ll try not to sneak so much. So, they want me to be a combat instructor, do they?”

"Apparently so," grumbled the redhead, "but feel free to tell them where to stuff it. I’ll be cheering you on."

"I have no doubt you would," chuckled the ancient. He turned Grell around in his arms and he winced a little at the motion. "This is bigger than my resentment for what they attempted to do, though. Everything could end, if we fail to protect the Great Library. I don’t know about you, love, but having just found you again, I’m not so willing to throw in the towel. We didn’t get our chance the last time you were alive, but we’ve got an opportunity to be happy now. Bugger the world, I want a future for _us_.”

Grell smiled at him, and he gently traced the slowly fading bruise on his torso with his fingertips. “You _must_ be a glutton for punishment. I like a man who can take a beating and still love me, afterwards.”

"I think I gave as good as I got," answered the taller reaper, and he caressed the sore spot on Grell’s jaw. "Didn’t like hitting this pretty face, though."

Grell shut his eyes, enjoying the loving touch. He turned his head into the caressing hand and he kissed the palm and fingers. “I understand why you did it, and I forgive you.”

"So generous," whispered Undertaker with a smile, and he lowered his mouth to Grell’s for a kiss.

"Mmm, you’ll end up on your back in the bedroom, if you keep that up," warned Grell, only half-kidding. He gave the taller man an admiring once-over, and he cupped his ass and gave it a squeeze. "I would love nothing more than to ride you until we both collapse, but they want you to come in and I still need to see to your bruise."

Undertaker visibly reacted to his sensual words and grope, and he cast a quick, rueful look down at his protruding crotch. “Well, I can’t go in like _this_. What would people say?”

Grell snickered softly, and he impulsively reached down to give the bulge a little pat. “They would probably say I’m a very, very fortunate reaper. Now go and lie down so that we can get your injury healed faster.”

"Might need an extra cold pack for that as well," sighed Undertaker with a nod down at his crotch. "Your little pat didn’t help the situation in my pants, love."

Grell winked at him. “It wasn’t meant to, darling. Go on, shoo. I’ll be in there with you soon.”

 

* * *

They were shown to William’s office after arriving at Headquarters and being given Undertaker’s new phone. While the ancient fiddled with the device curiously, William explained his proposal.

"Management feels that you can help our reapers prepare better than any instructors we have here now," he said, "and it would be a great honor to us if you would…er…pardon me, but are you listening, sir?"

Undertaker glanced up from the phone, his mouth slightly slack with distraction. “Eh? Oh, yes. I understand what you want of me, Mr. Spears.”

William nodded and waited. When Undertaker resumed pushing buttons on his phone, the supervisor politely cleared his throat to gain his attention again. Grell chuckled behind his hand as his lover again looked up, his eyes completely hidden under his bangs.

"Yes?" asked Undertaker politely.

"Do you accept our proposal, or not?"

"Hmm." Undertaker put the phone in a pocket in his long, black garments. "That depends on you, Spears."

William frowned. “Me?”

"Indeed." Undertaker grinned and relaxed in his seat, threading his long fingers together in his lap. "There’s the matter of my fee, you understand. If you want my services, you’ve got to reimburse me for them."

The expression on William’s face revealed his dread. “What can I do for you, then?”

The mortician’s grin became almost sadistic. “Entertain me, of course. You know how to make me laugh. You managed to get a pretty chuckle out of me yesterday, after all.”

William looked to Grell almost pleadingly, but he found no help in that quarter. The redhead watched him expectantly. “You heard him, Will. Entertain him.”

The brunet almost looked as though he’d been sentenced to death. He sighed and he stood up, taking a step back from his desk to make room. “This is absolutely the last time.”

Undertaker’s grin remained firmly in place. “If your department stops asking favors of me, certainly. You can start any time now, Mr. Spears.”

William sighed again, cleared his throat and assumed the position. “The complete flame in our chests shall not be extinguished by anyone. We are _The Phoenix_!”

Undertaker predictably burst into laughter and clapped in appreciation, but Grell’s laughter was slightly more contained, this time. After all, William T. Spears was a dignified man and he’d been his superior for roughly three decades. He had also put himself at substantial risk to spare Undertaker from the fate originally intended for him, and Grell was beginning to feel sorry for him. Red-faced, the Dispatch supervisor fell out of the pose and looked uncomfortably at the laughing ancient.

"Does that satisfy your demands, sir?"

Undertaker nodded, gathering control of himself with difficulty. “It does. I assume you have a gymnasium of sorts to train in? Otherwise you may end up with a lot of reapers catching cold or being struck by lightning.”

"Yes, there is a training facility for fledglings one block from here," answered William. "I’m afraid these sessions will be all-day affairs. Not only will you be tutoring young recruits, we wish for you to train some of our more seasoned reapers, as well. There will be breaks between classes and we will of course provide refreshments. There are also full bathrooms on the grounds for showering, and a locker room for changing."

"Hmm, maybe I should have asked for more than one Phoenix pose," mused Undertaker, scratching his chin.

"You’ve already agreed to the request," reminded William uncomfortably.

His dread alone seemed to be enough to amuse Undertaker. The ancient chuckled again and shook his head. “Relax, chap. I’m a man of my word. I’ll begin tomorrow.”

William frowned. “But the war could come to us at any time.”

Undertaker nodded. “True, and if it comes tonight, a few piddly hours of training with me won’t make a bit of difference for your warriors. Allow me one night to get my lesson plan in order, and I shall train your fighters to the best of my abilities.”

William deflated and nodded. “Fair enough. I will relay your answer to management.”

 

* * *

As they walked away from the office, Undertaker toyed with his new communication device, absently poking his tongue out the corner of his mouth. “And now I save,” he muttered after entering Grell’s number. When the number vanished from the screen instead of saving under contacts as intended, he frowned. “Damn.”

Grell’s phone began to ring, and the redhead looked at it and chuckled. “You called me,” he explained. “You must have pressed the wrong button.”

Undertaker shrugged. “If at first you don’t succeed…”

He pressed the red key to stop the call and he tried again.

"Undertaker, I need to ask something of you."

"In a moment, love," said the ancient, concentrating hard on what he was doing. "Just let me work this contraption out, first. You won’t best me, you silly piece of technology."

Grell waited patiently and Undertaker stopped walking. He finally got Grell’s number stored in his contact list and he grinned in triumph. “Ah, there now. What did you want to ask me?”

"I would like you to stop bullying Will."

Undertaker’s brows shot up. “Bullying?”

Grell shrugged, grinning at him. “You keep singling him out. Are jealous of him, my love?”

Undertaker raised a finger to make a point, but damned if he could come up with a decent rebuttal to the accusation. He sighed. “A little bit, yes. I’m driven as much by the desire to avenge the wrongs he’s done to you, though. What’s a bit of humiliation, compared to the many times he’s smacked you around—both verbally and physically? You know my feelings on that, my dear.”

Grell nodded. “Yes, I know, and you’re right; he abused his power and struck me knowing I couldn’t strike back without repercussions. He hasn’t done that at all since you confronted him about it, though. He hasn’t even put me down…much. I’m fine with William’s contempt for me, Undertaker. I’ve lived with it for years and it’s simply part of our relationship. I tease him to distraction, he insults my personality and work ethic. It’s a push-and-pull we’ve been engaged in from the beginning.”

Grell waited until they got inside the elevator to speak again, and when the doors shut, he put his arms around the taller man and gazed up at him. “I appreciate why you do it, and I’m flattered that you feel jealous of him, but it needs to stop. Will isn’t as bad as you think. He’s the reason you aren’t branded now, if you’ll recall.”

Undertaker sighed. “Yes, I’m aware.”

Grell put his arms around his neck and kissed him softly. “Then lay off of him for a bit. If you want someone to do the Phoenix pose for you again, pick that stuffy Mr. Jacobs. I know you dislike him even more than Will.”

Undertaker snorted. “He’s so stiff, he wouldn’t be able to pull it off. I’ll humor you, though.” He kissed him back and gave him a squeeze. “My schedule is going to be mightily booked after tonight, love. I think we should spend the rest of the day in bed, once we get back to the apartment.”

"I think that’s a fabulous idea," grinned the redhead.

 

* * *

First they had lunch, and they sat down together on the sofa to watch the telly as they ate their sandwiches. The strongest signal they could get was the Shinigami news channel. The storm outside had picked up again, and hailstones were blended in with the rain. Grell looked up at the ceiling with a frown as a boom of thunder made the building tremble and the overhead light sway. Undertaker put an arm around him and offered him a bite of his sandwich. Grell took it and grinned, returning the gesture.

“ _Reports have come to us from all over the mortal realm_ ,” the anchorman said. “ _The dead have begun to rise, in some parts of the world. Reaper agents from global dispatch departments have confirmed that these risen dead have already been reaped in the past, according to their records. The undead are in varying states of decay, and they seem to hunger for the flesh of the living._ ”

Grell’s brows shot up, and he looked at Undertaker. The ancient shrugged as best he could and gave him a look of one wrongly accused. “They can’t pin this one on _me_ , love. I’ve been right here with you.”

"Of course," agreed the redhead. "Forgive my mind for immediately going there."

Undertaker chuckled. “I think I can let this one slide, on account of my recent past.”

_"Mortal Police forces in all affected areas have been attempting to deal with the risen dead and protect the citizens,"_ the reporter on the television went on, _"but the only things that seem to stop them are dismemberment, beheading, destruction of the brain or incineration. Humans that suffer bites from these creatures sicken and die, only to rise again later as one of them. These humans don’t make it onto reaper death lists, as theirs is an un-natural death, brought about prematurely. Dispatch agents in Italy have attempted to collect the cinematic records of newly risen victims, only to find them corrupted. Souls of those who die in this manner cannot be catalogued for the library, unfortunately. Two agents lost their lives in the attempt, so far."_

"Ew," Said Grell with a grimace. "What a horrid fate."

"Which?" asked Undertaker, "being reanimated as a zombie, never having their souls collected, or being killed by corrupted cinematic records?"

"All of it," sighed the redhead. He looked at his lover with genuine dread in his eyes. "You know I tend to hold mortals in contempt, but they deserve _some_ dignity in death. I once saw William nearly succumb to the cinematic records of a mortal, and I can tell you now, that’s no way for a reaper to die. They get dragged into the memories of the mortal. Will actually seemed to think he _was_ the deceased, for a moment.”

Undertaker nodded. “I’ve seen it before. I came close to being a victim of it myself, once. Some souls cling harder to life than others, and I imagine these newly raised undead do so ferociously. So what happened to dear William, when his reaping attempt backfired on him?”

Grell shrugged. “I saved him.”

Undertaker smirked. “I’ll bet that stuck in his craw.”

"It did." Grell chuckled. "He was fairly humiliated to be rescued by me, but it did form a bond between us that I used to hope would lead into something more."

"Mm, but you don’t still entertain that hope."

Grell smiled. “No, I don’t. I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again; Will is no threat to my love for you.”

"I’m afraid I need some physical proof of that." Undertaker leered at him.

Understanding the game for what it was, Grell snuggled closer. “After lunch, my delectable darling. I’ll provide you with all the proof you need.”

"I suppose I’ll have to be patient, then." Undertaker fed him another bite of sandwich, and his gaze went to the television. "I do hope young Phantomhive is safe."

"Hmph, that brat has more than one way out of a fix," assured Grell. "Besides, he has Sebby. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Can’t you tell if his death is approaching, anyhow?"

Undertaker frowned. “Ordinarily, I can sense the approaching death of a Phantomhive when it draws near. It’s part of my contract with the family, you see. Unfortunately, I’m not on the mortal plane and therefore it’s unclear to me. I sense his danger, but I can’t predict his survival chances.”

"Well, you shouldn’t fret over it. As I said; your precious little Earl has his hunky demon butler to protect him—not to mention his bizarre servants."

Undertaker grinned. “He’s also got my gift to him. Grandmother Phantomhive will be very cross indeed, should someone try to gobble up the little lord.”

Grell gave him a perplexed look. “I beg pardon?”

Undertaker rubbed the tip of his nose against his. “Nothing to concern yourself with, kitten. Here, finish it off.”

Grell opened his mouth to accept the last morsel of the sandwich, and he fed his last bit to Undertaker in return.

 

* * *

-To be continued


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

They made it back to the estate without anyone getting hurt, and Snake jumped off the back of the carriage to close and lock the gates behind them. They saw no sign of undead on the road out of London, which suggested that the phenomenon was localized to the city. Ciel was ready to come to the conclusion that it was indeed Undertaker’s doing, and he reasoned that he might have done it for the expressed purpose of creating chaos for the reapers to sort out, which might give him and Grell a better chance to get away and get hidden.

It made perfect sense to Ciel, until the carriage pulled up to the mansion and Finnian came running out to meet them. The young blond man was covered in dirt, bruises and blood, and he waved his arms urgently. Coming out behind him was Tanaka, and Ciel’s brows shot up when he saw that the old man carried a musket rifle. He climbed out of the carriage with Baldroy’s help and he frowned at Finny when the gardener approached.

"What’s all this?" demanded Ciel. Behind him, Baldroy was helping Elizabeth and Paula out of the carriage.

"Oh, sir, thank goodness you’re home," exclaimed Finnian. "You’ll never believe what’s happened! It was _terrible_!”

"All right, calm down," demanded Ciel in a tone of shocking authority for one of his meager years. He could see that Tanaka was too winded and tired to give an explanation, so he kept his focus on Finnian. "Just take a deep breath and tell me what happened."

"We were attacked," answered the blond immediately. "At first, I thought it was an injured man seeking help! Tanaka and I were trimming the hedges, and he came stumbling up to us from ‘round the back of the estate, where the family cemetery is—"

"The cemetery?" interrupted Ciel, and a terrible, sick feeling formed in the pit of his stomach.

Finnian nodded, and one of the hairpins clipped into his flaxen bangs fell free, finally losing its precarious hold on his hair. “Something was wrong with him. He stank…badly. He was covered in dirt and his eyes were…well, I thought he was blind, at first.”

"So what happened?" prompted Ciel impatiently, gesturing at Baldroy to get the ladies into the mansion. Mey-Rin had climbed out and she promptly went to Finny with a worried exclamation.

"I’m okay, Mey-Rin," assured the blond as the young woman began to check his injuries. To Ciel, he answered: "Well sir, Tanaka went to ask the fellow who he was and if he needed help, and he tried to bite him! I pushed him off of him, but he just kept coming. Then _more_ people started to come from ‘round back, and I…I recognized two of them as the agents that came and attacked the estate, not long ago.”

Ciel sucked in a slow breath, feeling nauseous at the thought of the possibility that his own relatives could rise from their graves to attack them. That shouldn’t be possible, though. They would have long-since decomposed, and it seemed that only the recently dead were rising.

"How did you stop them?" he asked, reminding himself to take one thing at a time. Now was the time for rationale and calm, not panicked theories.

"Well, I had to twist the head off of one," answered Finnian with obvious disgust. Behind him, Tanaka made a face. "Tanaka got another in the eyes with the trimming sheers. After that, we ran inside to get weapons and we finished them off. Th-they didn’t even _notice_ when we struck them! It didn’t slow them down one bit, and I even hit one hard enough to send him sailing to the fence! The only thing that stopped them was—”

"Beheading or a direct strike to the brain," interrupted Ciel.

Finnian nodded. “I’ve never been very religious, sir, but wasn’t there a part in the bible about the dead rising from their graves?”

Though he was hardly a theologist himself, Ciel had started to do a bit of research on the subject since these strange happenings first began. He nodded. “It was in Revelation, I believe. I hardly thought it meant that an army of zombies would rise to eat mankind, however. They’re all over London, too. I thought it might have been Undertaker’s work at first, but I can’t think of any reason why he would resurrect the dead on my own estate. This is all connected to everything else that’s been happening, and I doubt even Undertaker is powerful enough to be the cause of it all.”

Mey-Rin grimaced. “What should we do, young master? There are more graves back there!”

Ciel looked toward the mansion with a frown. “We’ll have the cemetery watched. The only recently buried bodies there were those agents, so we shouldn’t see further activity. The…other remains…should be too decayed to do so. We also need to watch the perimeter of the estate. You will all take rotating shifts, and I will research in the study. Sebastian will be returning with news, soon. We may get our answers then.”

"Pardon my saying so," Finnian said shyly, "but shouldn’t you send for him to come back now, young master?"

Ciel shook his head. “He’s…too far away for me to contact him, at the moment.” He looked around at the grounds thoughtfully. “We should dig a trench. Finnian, I’ll explain what I want done to you and I want you to finish it quickly. Baldroy will do the rest, once you’ve finished. Mey-Rin, you and Snake will be on watch on top of the roof. We don’t know how long this situation is going to last, or how far the undead will spread out. Finnian, I’m sure you’d like to get cleaned up, but we need to get this done, first. You can rest afterwards.”

The blond nodded and stood up straighter. “Yes sir!”

Ciel turned to the old man who once served as the family butler, before the disaster struck and Sebastian took over. “Tanaka, please go and see to the comfort of Lady Midford and her handmaid, while I oversee preparations. Once they’ve been seen to, I want you to begin researching in the study, until I can join you. Have Baldroy put the horses and carriage to stable, and inform him that I will speak with him when I’ve finished with Finnian.”

Tanaka gave a little bow and went inside. Ciel looked to Snake and Mey-Rin. “You two freshen up, gather weapon rounds and pack up something to snack on in a picnic basket. I’m afraid you may be patrolling the roof for a while, so be sure to carry a tarp from the supply rooms, and something for warmth. If the weather gets too violent, you can move your posts to the attic and use the windows as your vantage point. Until then, I want you to remain on the roof—barring necessary shift breaks.”

The maid and the footman nodded, and Ciel went with Finnian to gather landscaping tools and show him where he wanted him to dig. When they were alone together, Snake looked sidelong at Mey-Rin and he flushed, sticking his hands into his trouser pockets.

"You were," he said softly, "amazing…says Oscar."

She smiled from ear to ear at the compliment, blushing as well. “So were you, says…er…I mean, you were too!”

He smiled shyly at her.

 

* * *

Grell finished combing the damp silver bangs straight, and he reached for the red-handled scissors waiting on the tray on top of the counter nearby. He gave his lover an uncertain look as he closed his pointer and index fingers over the damp hair, and he lifted the fringe up a little to gaze into the dual-iris Shinigami eyes beneath it.

"Once more, are you _sure_ about this, darling?”

Undertaker chuckled softly. “I _have_ had haircuts before, love. A little trim isn’t going to kill me.”

"I know that," muttered Grell. His gaze flicked to the discarded hat and robes hanging from the garment tree, visible through the kitchen archway. "It isn’t the trim that bothers me; it’s the changes surrounding it."

Undertaker’s grin softened. “Necessary changes, love. If I’m to take on this role, I need to find my way back to the reaper I used to be.”

Grell frowned at that. “You don’t need to change for them.”

"Is that what you think I’m doing?" Undertaker gently took the scissors from his hand and he set them in the tray. He took both of Grell’s hands and he squeezed them, peering up at him through the damp fringe of his bangs.

"Grell, the Shinigami don’t need Undertaker the mortician. They need Undertaker the reaper. If I’m going to be of any use, I have to put aside the funeral director and go back to my roots; at least until this is over with. Both are a part of me, and trust me when I say that when this is all said and done, I fully intend to go back to my mortuary and resume my work."

Grell returned the pressure of his hands. “Funny, if you had asked me before we first brought you in, I would have certainly said that I prefer Undertaker the reaper.”

"But now you prefer the funeral director?" Undertaker grinned broadly. "Why? I thought he was a ‘creepy old fossil’?"

"That was before I got to know him," Grell said with a shrug, blushing. "Don’t mistake me; Undertaker the reaper is surely a sexy beast, but I think I’ll rather miss the grinning funeral director."

"I can still grin as a reaper, love," reminded Undertaker. "I’m grinning right now."

Grell released one of his hands to trace the grin in question, and his return smile was a bit nostalgic. “I know, but now everyone is going to see the way those smiles light up the rest of that gorgeous face of yours. I know that it’s ridiculous because you wore your hair pulled back when we were in hiding, but that was different. We were in disguise, and in the presence of mortals. Seeing your face under any other circumstance felt like something special…something just for me. Now I have to share it with other people and I resent that.”

"Aw, is someone jealous?" Undertaker giggled, sounding more like the eccentric hermit Grell knew from before. "Don’t pout, my dear. Other people may be able to look upon my face after tonight, but my heart and my body belong exclusively to _you_.”

Undertaker caught hold of the hand pressed against his heart, and he lifted it to his lips to kiss it. “Only to you, my love.”

Grell’s heart pounded fiercely in response to the romantic proclamation, and his blush returned full force. He pulled his hand out of the older reaper’s grasp and he settled both hands on his knees to push them apart. He settled his hips between them as he retrieved his scissors, and kissed him deeply. Undertaker allowed his tongue into his mouth and Grell took a few moments to plunder him, overcome by a possessive thrill. As much as he adored having Undertaker’s cock inside of him, he fantasized about reversing the roles sometime.

"Undertaker," he murmured against the animated, silken lips. "I…"

He faltered and lost his nerve. He had no remarkable experience with topping a partner—at least, not in the sense of penetration. He had only done it that way twice before, and both times weren’t particularly memorable. Undertaker’s hands settled on his waist, and he looked at him curiously.

"What is it, lovely?"

He could tell him anything. He knew that, but he honestly didn’t know how to put this request into words. Given the circumstances, Grell thought it would be best to wait for a better moment—such as while they were already engaged in foreplay and he felt more confident. He shook his head and he retrieved the comb from the cup of water nearby.

"Nothing. Your bangs are half-dried. Now hold still while I trim them up and style them."

 

* * *

William checked his watch again, and he sighed. He looked over the organized groups of Shinigami, practicing their technique, and he shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know why I expected him and Sutcliff to arrive on time.”

"They’ll be here," soothed Ronald. "You’ve got to factor in the cruddy weather and the distance between here and Senpai’s apartment."

As if to accentuate his point, there was a rolling boom of thunder outside that made the floor vibrate and caused the lights hanging from the high-domed ceilings to flicker. Some of the sparring reapers paused to look up, distracted by the ruckus.

"We may need to check the backup generator," William said with a frown, also looking up at the ceiling. "It wouldn’t do for the power to fail in the middle of training lessons. Ronald, why don’t you…Ronald?"

William frowned at his companion when he looked at him again and found that he wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to him. He was staring at something behind him, toward the double doors leading outside of the gymnasium. A cold, damp breeze wafted in as the doors opened in full.

"H-holeee shiiit," said the blond reaper, blinking. "Uh, I think our instructor has arrived, Will."

It his fascination, he utterly failed to address William properly. Unused to him slipping up that much in public, William turned to see what he was staring at—and he nearly dropped his scythe. In fact, if it weren’t bound to his wrist by the strap, he probably _would_ have dropped it.

There, standing in the doorway with Grell and Lawrence Anderson, was the Legendary Reaper—literally. It was if one of the statue monuments of him had come to life to join them. Undertaker was dressed in his old uniform: a white shirt beneath a long black trench coat, a black tie, supple black trousers and black boots. His bangs had been trimmed back and styled so that his face and eyes were no longer hidden, and he wore his half-framed, silver glasses. The scars and the long, black fingernails were the only difference between the man standing before them and the one immortalized in the sculptures and paintings.

Others took noticed of him as well, and the sounds of sparring died off. There was a dead silence as the training Shinigami stared at a piece of their history. Undertaker looked around quietly, his face an unreadable mask. William glanced at Ronald, nudged him out of his trance, and then approached. He gave Undertaker a bow of respect before greeting him.

"Welcome to the training facilities, sir. This group is ready for your instruction, whenever you would like to begin."

Undertaker’s gaze flicked over him, before scanning the watching crowd. “You’re a cool one, aren’t you? Why are they all using training scythes? They don’t appear to be fledglings.”

"No, the fledglings train in a smaller gymnasium, not far from here," answered William. He was proud of himself for managing a level tone and calm expression. His heart felt like it was running a marathon in his chest. He felt like he was addressing a hero now, though his head reminded him harshly that this man was certifiably insane and technically still a criminal.

"It would probably be wise to have the fledglings continue their regular lesson plans," suggested Anderson. He glanced up at the tall, silver Shinigami beside him. "I don’t believe Undertaker’s training is…appropriate…for them."

Undertaker smirked and glanced at him. “You’ve got a good memory, friend.”

"Your methods aren’t easy to forget," answered Lawrence dryly. He looked at William as he retrieved his pipe from his vest. "May I?"

"Please," agreed the supervisor politely, nodding. He looked at Undertaker again, and he noticed out the corner of his eye that Ronald’s mouth was still hanging open. The young man was staring at the ancient with rapt wonder, like a child who had just seen a dragon or unicorn in the flesh.

With an annoyed little huff, William reached out and placed a gloved hand beneath Ronald’s chin, pushing it up to shut his mouth. “You’ll swallow flies that way,” he muttered. Ron looked boyishly contrite, and he blushed and looked away as he cleared his throat.

"To answer your question, Undertaker, they are using practice scythes to avoid causing serious harm to one another," William explained, returning his attention to Undertaker. "It is the safety policy of this organization for all sparring exercise on Reaper grounds be conducted with standard, unaltered training scythes."

"Hmm, I see." Undertaker began to pace back and forth before the awed assembly of reapers, and the hard soles of his boots tapped against the floor with his steps. "Tell me, what good does it do for them to practice with something other than their own custom scythes?"

"I’ve been wondering that myself," muttered Eric Slingby from the left. He was at the front of the assembly with his partner, and Alan nudged him meaningfully to quiet him.

"There have been accidents before," answered William, "and some deaths have occurred in the past. To prevent it from happening again, Senior Management implemented the policy that we not spar with true scythes. This policy has been active for over fifty years, now."

"Well, I’m breaking it now," Undertaker said. He looked over at the weapon wrack where the training scythes were stored. "Everyone, put away your training scythes and manifest your own."

William looked at him uncomfortably, while Grell—standing on Undertaker’s other side, grinned broadly and called his chainsaw into existence. “Undertaker, could I have a moment of your time?” William requested, gesturing to the front corner of the room, away from the crowd.

Undertaker gave his redheaded companion a look, and Grell responded with an almost pleading expression. The ancient visibly sighed, nodded and joined William in the corner of the room. “What is it, Spears?”

"With all due respect, I think this method of training you’ve proposed is inappropriate," answered William frankly. His knees felt like they were turning to jelly as those pale-lashed eyes stared unwavering into his. He almost preferred the Undertaker’s previous look. He really did have a piercing gaze. "We can’t risk accidental injuries or death, at a time like this."

"I beg to differ, Mr. Spears," countered Undertaker in a low voice. "Now is precisely the time to risk it. If this fracas comes to us, those men are going to be facing opponents that won’t show any hesitation or mercy, and the blades of angels are nearly as deadly to our kind as our scythes. The death scythe is more than a reaping tool; it is a weapon. These reapers need to train with the weapons specialized to them, to learn how to move best with them. Generic training scythes won’t allow for that."

William couldn’t really dispute that logic. “And if we lose agents in the process of training?”

Undertaker smiled crookedly. “Accidents can and do happen, but it would take a rather precise strike for them to deliver fatal blows to one another. I suspect the deaths you refer to in the past were more deliberate than you may think.”

William lifted a brow subtly. “Entirely possible. Rivalries do occur within the ranks. Very well, sir. We will proceed as you have directed, and I’ll inform the hospital to send medical staff to be on standby, in the event of injury.”

"Fair enough," agreed Undertaker. "Will that be all?"

William nodded. “Yes, please carry on.”

Undertaker walked away from him, and he couldn’t help but stare at the way the shiny, pale length of his hair swayed with his motions. He had always had great respect for the man, but he was used to the unkempt, cackling funeral director or the darkly amused zombie master. He had to admit that he cleaned up nicely. Even his mannerisms had changed.

"Right then," Undertaker said as he stepped before the waiting assembly. Scythes of all shapes and sizes glinted under the lamplight, and Undertaker manifested his own infamous scythe, drawing low gasps and murmurs. "Now I need everyone to remove their glasses."

The murmurs grew in volume, and William frowned again. “Pardon me?”

Undertaker glanced at him. “The glasses. I want them off.”

Alan Humphries stepped forward and bowed respectfully. “Pardon me, but may I ask the purpose behind this order?”

"You may." Undertaker smirked at him.

Everyone went silent, waiting. Undertaker kept smirking, and he appeared to be staring off at something in the distance. When he didn’t respond, Grell lightly stepped on the toe of his boot, and Undertaker seemed to shake himself out of whatever thoughts were churning behind those lazy eyes.

"Ah, to answer that question, you all need to learn to practice using your other senses. In fact, I want blindfolds. Mr. Spears, I trust that can be arranged?"

William stared at him. “Blindfolds? You want them to use real death scythes against each other while _blindfolded_?”

"Are you questioning my methods?" challenged Undertaker.

"Yes," replied William without hesitation. "I _am_ questioning it.”

"Have they never trained with blindfolds before?" inquired the ancient. "These are seasoned reapers, aren’t they?"

"The blindfolds are used for unarmed combat training," answered William. "Not with real death scythes."

Undertaker took a slow breath, appearing to gather his thoughts. He began to pace before the assembly again as he spoke. “What is a Shinigami’s greatest weakness?”

People looked at each other uncertainly, and Grell answered the question. “Our piss-poor eyesight.”

"Indeed." Undertaker stopped and smiled at the group. "We can take a beating that would shatter a human being. We can survive injuries that could cripple or kill even a demon. Our bodies don’t age past a certain point and we could theoretically live forever, but we can’t see a bloody thing three feet in front of us, without our glasses. Angels don’t share that weakness, but you can bet your death list they know about it, and they’re going to try to exploit it if they make it here to our realm."

He paused to allow that to sink in, and several of the watching reapers began to remove their glasses. “In addition,” Undertaker said after a few moments, “the common angel can manifest divine swords capable of doing great harm to us, and to demons. A vital strike from one wouldn’t be immediately fatal as it would from a death scythe, but enough wounds from one can kill a Shinigami. That’s only the lowest choir, too. If they bring any archangels into the fight, we’re in for an even bigger threat. Those flaming swords of theirs are just as deadly to us as our scythes, and you’d best hope there aren’t any potentates in their ranks, let alone cherubim or seraphim. The rest of them aren’t likely to be involved in this, but the ones I’ve listed are nothing to take lightly.”

Several faces went pale, and someone called out a question. “Do you really think the higher choirs will be in on this, sir?”

Undertaker shrugged. “Not all of them. Some are peaceful sorts, others are akin to nature spirits, and some like the thrones are only concerned with carrying out the will of the Divine. From what we know so far, it seems the ambition to rebel and come take the Great Library out of Shinigami hands came from the lowest choir, and the conflict is currently happening on their plane. More likely than not, most of the upper choirs are either indifferent to it or curious to see where it leads. The upper planes aren’t in any danger if they succeed, after all. Our realm and Earth will be the ones to be un-made, if those rebel angels bugger up the balance of the mortal afterlife.”

When no further questions were asked, Undertaker smiled again. “So please, remove your glasses and apply the blindfolds as they are given to you. Mr. Sutcliff, if you would be so kind as to fetch them and pass them out?”

Grell didn’t argue with him—which annoyed William a bit. Grell _always_ had some cheeky remark to say to him, whenever he issued an order. With Undertaker, he just did it without question. He supposed it helped that they were sleeping together, but still…

"Ronald, take your place in the group," William said, putting aside his frustration with Grell and his doubts concerning this training method. He looked at Undertaker again as the blond complied. He was about to let a notoriously unstable reaper blindfold and train his officers with real death scythes. It made him wonder if he was going a bit mad, himself. "I really hope you know what you’re doing, sir."  

Undertaker’s eyes met his, appearing serene and confident. “Don’t worry so much, chap. I’m not going to send them in swinging at each other. We’ll start with basic defensive maneuvers, and I’ll break them down into groups of five and spend a little time with each of them. We’ll move on to the harder exercises tomorrow—provided we aren’t caught up in a war, by then.”

Again, it seemed perfectly logical and reasonable. _~How much of his madness is genuine, and how much is an act? All this time he’s been assumed to be insane, but what if we’ve all been wrong about that?~_

"What are you waiting for, Spears?"

William came out of his troubled thoughts with a confused frown. “I beg your pardon?”

Undertaker smiled patiently at him and made a graceful gesture at the ranks. “You should be in there, too. Lead by example. Everyone can benefit from this, though I daresay of all your generation, you seem to have the concept of treating your scythe as an extension of yourself mastered more than anyone else.”

William’s mouth curved slightly in flattery. “Thank you.”

"Don’t let it go to your head," said the ancient with a smirk. "I still think you’re a wanker. Now choose your group and get ready with the rest of them."

William sighed. It seemed there was still something of the unkempt, cockney mortician in there, after all.

 

* * *

_~You’re doing fine, old boy. Don’t let it get to you.~_

He kept telling himself that as he called out instructions and went through each individual group, helping them perfect their defensive stances and tutoring them on how to use their other senses. On the outside, he was the Legendary Reaper, a hard-ass instructor come to shape these reapers into better warriors. On the inside, however, he was still the curious old funeral director that wanted to understand everything about life, death, and how it all worked.

There was another part of him still, however, and that was the Romantic. He found himself fighting hard against that persona each time he came back to Grell to instruct him or test him. It was so very difficult to put aside his fierce love for him and be objective. In his efforts not to show favoritism, he started coming down on Grell harder than everyone else and he didn’t realize it until the redhead muttered something to him as Undertaker adjusted his position.

"Was it really necessary to call me a maggot, you old fart?" whispered Grell, turning his head blindly where he thought Undertaker’s ear might be. His lips brushed against the ancient’s cheek as he spoke, which caused Undertaker some distraction and made him thankful he was wearing a long jacket as part of his uniform.

"I can’t show favoritism, my dear," whispered Undertaker back, and some mischievous impulse made him nibble Grell’s earlobe, provoking a little shiver.

"But you’re being outright _mean_ ,” protested the redhead as Undertaker guided his limbs and pressed close against him from behind. “Mmm, but this contact almost makes it worth it.”

"Now, now," chastised Undertaker, biting back laughter. "Save it for the bedroom, lovely."

"Can we use a blindfold?" suggested Grell with a smirk. "I think it would be fun."

"Oh, absolutely," agreed Undertaker. "Now shush, before you make me forget my role here and drag you off to a utility closet for some satisfaction."

William was evidently close enough to overhear some of it, and he cleared his throat pointedly and tapped his watch. Realizing he was in danger of blowing his cover of professionalism, Undertaker left Grell a silent promise to think about in the form of a brief, enthusiastic pinch on the bottom.

"Ooh!" Grell released one hand from his chainsaw to rub the spot, and he was grinning like a fiend.

Fighting hard not to laugh, Undertaker decided it was best to move on. He approached Ronald Knox, and he tapped his fingernails absently against the snath of his scythe as he examined the young reaper’s custom weapon of choice. He’d never seen anything like it before. He didn’t get the opportunity to have a good look at it when he fought off the boy, Grell and Sebastian on the Campania, but now that he saw it up close, he was perplexed.  

_~Blast these younguns and their modern scythes. How can I be expected to train them, when they use reaping tools so far beyond my time?~_

Aloud, he chose to simply ask about it. “Just what _is_ that anyway, Mr. Knox?”

Ronald nodded and turned his head blindly in the direction of Undertaker’s voice. “What’s what, Senpai Undertaker?”

"Your scythe," elaborated the ancient. "What is it? I’m not familiar with the harvesting tool it’s fashioned after."

"Oh!" The kid grinned and flipped the scythe up, twirling it with ease and narrowly missing hitting William T. Spears with it. "It’s a lawn mower! We’ve been using them to cut grass and keep yards nice and tidy for years, now. I thought it would make a cool, fast-working scythe, so I talked this girl in General Affairs and—"

"Ronald," William said in a warning tone, "he didn’t ask for your personal history, he only asked how your scythe works."

"That’s quite all right," assured the ancient, coughing into his hand to cover up a snicker. He found Ronald’s enthusiasm for his scythe rather entertaining. "Mr. Knox appears to have quite the bond with his death scythe, and that’s a _good_ thing. After all, that’s why we are allowed to modify them once we’ve achieved officer status.”

William nodded. “Indeed; that hasn’t changed since your day. Personalizing them to suit our individual needs and mannerisms is the best way to ensure we do good work with them.”

"Then let the boy have his enthusiasm." Undertaker grinned at Ronald, and he could see why Grell was so fond of him. "I’m afraid I can’t show you the best defensive stance to use with this tool, Mr. Knox. We may have to wing it and test your current methods tomorrow, when we move on to the more active exercises."

"Sure thing," agreed Ron lightly.

Satisfied now that he’d interacted with each of them, Undertaker nodded. “Then I want you all to practice your stances when you leave today. We’ve got an undetermined schedule to keep, and ever moment counts. While you work on perfecting your stance, I want you to shut your eyes and listen carefully with your other senses. The key to blind fighting is to listen, smell and feel. The skin that covers your bones is one giant sensory organ, stretched out over your skeleton.”

Ronald grimaced. “Does anybody else think skin suddenly sounds really gross?”

William looked like he really wanted to pop him. “Ronald, be _quiet_!”

Undertaker clamped his lips shut, and he snorted involuntarily as he again struggled not to laugh. When he felt he could speak again, he addressed the observation. “It may sound unappealing to you, but it’s a simple, biological fact. You can actually sometimes _feel_ your opponent’s incoming move, if you’re attuned well enough to your body and its senses. I’m not likely to have enough time to teach you how to fully utilize those senses, but you need to be aware of them, and you need to hone them as much as you can. It may save your lives, in the end.”

He planted the bottom of his scythe on the floor and he leaned against it casually. “You may remove your blindfolds and wear your glasses, again. This class is dismissed.”

They did as directed and they filed out, but William, Grell and Ronald hung around with Mr. Anderson to observe the next class. Grell winked at his lover as he took a seat on a bleacher and tugged his gloves off. “I do hope you don’t mind me watching you work, darling. I’m such a whore for your authority.”

"Honestly," huffed William in disgust. "Could you at least _attempt_ to show some professional manners, Sutcliff?”

Grell frowned at him. “You can nag me when you catch me shouting pillow talk at him while he’s training, Will. I for one don’t intend to spend every waking moment reminding everyone of how badly our situation sucks, all right?”

"Both of you, quiet down," Anderson said. He puffed on his pipe and looked to Undertaker. "You may want to take this opportunity to refresh yourself for your next class, old friend. You have fifteen minutes."

"I think that’s a brilliant idea," agreed Undertaker. He banished his scythe and started for the back of the gymnasium, where the restrooms and break room were. He glanced at Grell, smiled and offered a hand to him. "Join me, lovely?"

Grell put his nail file away and tucked his gloves into a vest pocket. “Gladly.” He got off the bleachers and bounded happily over to him to take his hand.

"Please don’t be late for the next class," requested William.

Undertaker looked over his shoulder at him and smirked. “I can’t offer any guarantees.”

William sighed and muttered something about inappropriate behavior. Beside him, Ronald was looking at him with a strangely exasperated expression on his attractive young features, and it wasn’t the look one would expect an underling to give his senior. He saw the way Ronald patted William’s tense shoulder, and he grinned again before turning to face where he and Grell were heading.

"So, _that’s_ it, eh? I thought there was something.”

"Hmm?" Grell looked up at him cluelessly, and Undertaker lifted his hand to his lips to press a kiss against the top of it.

"Nothing important, love. I just realized I can relax."

Grell looked confused. “About what?”

He didn’t want to tell him his suspicions until he was sure, so Undertaker settled for parting with another truth, once they were through the doors and into the corridor. “So how did I do out there, Grell? Honestly.”

The redhead looked at him with surprise. “You really need me to tell you?”

Undertaker grimaced and stopped, leaning back against the wall as he looked down at him. Thunder rumbled overhead and the lights flickered, again. “I need to know if I was convincing. Bringing back the old me is a bit exhausting, to tell you the truth of it.”

Grell’s expression softened into one of sympathy. “As soon as we return home tonight, you can put on your hat. Would that help?”

Undertaker gave him an uncommonly tired smile, and he reached out to tuck a strand of red hair behind Grell’s ear. “Possibly. It would give me the illusion of being the me I’ve become over the years, at least.”

Grell stepped closer and put his arms around him. “And I’ll give you other things to think about, too.” He kissed him on the chin, then on the lips. “I think I’ll bring my blindfold home with me. What do you think?”

"You want a bit of play then, do you?" Undertaker’s smile became more genuine, and he returned his kisses and held him close. "I should warn you, I may be too exhausted to give you the rough treatment, if that’s what you want."

"You don’t have to do anything," Grell assured in a seductive murmur. "You can just lie back and allow a fabulous redhead to do everything."

"You’ve no _idea_ how delightful that sounds, kitten,” replied Undertaker sincerely. Grell knew how to move his hips, and thinking of it made the ancient start to get…attentive. Grell noticed it too, and his grin sharpened wickedly as he pressed closer to him.

"Does my gorgeous silver stallion wish to be ridden by his lady?"

Undertaker started to snicker, but he knew how much Grell adored the poetic pillow talk—even when it sounded a bit silly. He lowered his mouth to his and he paused just before their lips touched. “This stallion is always ready for his lady.”

Grell blushed with passion and reached up with one hand to cup the back of his head, preventing Undertaker from withdrawing as he kissed him deeply. The doors leading to the gymnasium opened to admit Lawrence Anderson, and Undertaker was nearly thankful to the man for the interruption. He hunched a little to hide his condition as Grell pulled away from him, and he nearly laughed at the uncomfortable expression on the other ancient’s face.

"Pardon me," excused Anderson. "I…didn’t mean to interrupt."

"It’s quite all right," assured Undertaker. "We were just…having a moment."

"So I gathered." Anderson’s mouth quirked slightly beneath his mustache. "Please excuse me, gentlemen."

They moved aside to give him room as he walked past them, heading for the men’s room. He paused at the door and looked back at them. “Oh, and Undertaker? Nicely handled. I know that can’t have been easy for you. Just keep it together like that for the rest of the day, and you’ll do fine.”

Undertaker nodded, suppressing a grimace. So, Anderson noticed his occasional lapses. That meant Jacobs would likely notice them too, if he came to observe—and chances were, he would.

"What’s the matter?" Grell asked softly when Mr. Anderson disappeared into the restroom. He reached up to fluff Undertaker’s newly trimmed bangs. "You don’t look pleased."

Undertaker forced a smile at him, and he tried to shut out the voices of the dead and the fates. “Nothing, love. We’ve just got a long day ahead of us.”

Grell sighed. “Yes, we do. But tonight…” He trailed off and grinned, toying with the taller reaper’s tie. “…tonight, I’ll make you forget all about the strain of today.”

"Is that a promise, my dear?"

Grell nodded. “Absolutely.”

Undertaker’s smile was a bit more genuine now, but inwardly he was very much aware that nobody—not even Grell—understood what it was like to never be completely alone in one’s head. For a time, his fiery, passionate redhead made him forget about it. Grell sufficiently drowned out all of the other noise. Now, with Armageddon looming over them all, nothing seemed to drown out those voices.

 

* * *

-To be continued


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

The rain fell intermittently, but it seemed to have calmed down for the most part. Now they had only the chill and the force of the wind to worry about. Mey-Rin wore a pair of fingerless gloves on her hands to keep them warm, without compromising her aim with her sniping rifle. Snake dutifully walked the battlements, keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of danger to the estate. But for the howl of the wind and the noise of the first level windows being boarded up below, the night was eerily silent. Snake approached Mey-Rin’s post with a steaming cup of drink from his thermos, and she smiled at him in gratitude when he offered to share it with her.

"Cocoa," he said, "Says Emily."

"Thanks."

Feeling like it was safe enough for now to risk it, she put on her glasses so that she could see her companion more clearly at this short range. She took the mug from him, and they both blushed as their fingers brushed against one another. Her heart seemed to pound in her throat as he squatted down beside her to gaze at her with his slanted green eyes. The blush beneath the scales on his face faded slowly as he looked out at the estate grounds, and she took the moment of his distraction to admire the fine-boned symmetry of his profile.

"So quiet…says Oscar," he observed softly. The two reptiles draped around his neck entwined together for warmth, looking somewhat like a strange, two-headed single beast.

Mey-Rin sipped her chocolate drink and nodded in agreement. She sat back on her ankles, with her legs folded beneath her under the skirt. She had created a pallet to sit on while she surveyed the grounds, and she considered sharing it with him for comfort. “Mm. Maybe we won’t see any more zombies. There’s nothing nearby for miles and there’s a lot more…um…food…for them in the city.”

"If this keeps up," he said grimly, "they will eventually run out of ‘food’ and spread out in search for more…says Emily."

His serpentine gaze flicked to her again. “They act very much like the ‘bizarre dolls’ we encountered aboard the ship, and those pursued the living with a single-minded purpose. The undead we have seen so far appeared to do the same…says Oscar.”

She couldn’t dispute that, having only seen them off and picked them back up again when they returned from their ordeal. Her expression hardened with determination, and she pushed her round glasses back on her pert little nose, nodding at her firearms. “Right, then. If they come here looking for trouble, they’ll find it!”

She lost her bluster when he cracked a little smile of admiration, and she flushed and looked away, biting her lip. “Snake, can I ask you a question without seeming un-ladylike?”

He nodded. “You could never seem un-ladylike to us, says Emily.”

Warmed by the promise, she felt more confident, and she made herself look him in the eyes. “Is there someone special in your life? A…a girl you might be courting?”

He lowered his gaze, the pale lashes sweeping downward. “No. We’ve…I mean, I’ve never even kissed a girl…says Oscar.”

She swallowed more cocoa to moisten her suddenly dry mouth.

~This is your chance, girl…just do it! These could be your last days on earth! Do you want to die without kissing him?~

No, she didn’t want to die _at all_ , let alone without experiencing a kiss with the shy, strange young man she’d become so drawn to. She used to be afraid of his pets, but she’d grown used to them—more or less—and she thought she might even be sad if one of them died. Feeling like there was no better time than the present moment, Mey-Rin placed her mug on the edge of the wall and she reached out to take both of Snake’s hands.

"Would you…like to kiss _me_?”

He visibly swallowed, and he nodded convulsively. His slit pupils expanded into ovals as she gathered her courage and closed the distance between their faces, rising up to her knees from her sitting position. She let go of one of his hands to brush aside a pale lock of hair that got blown over his eyes, and she squeezed his other hand in hers as she puckered up and leaned closer. Their lips touched lightly at first…hesitantly. She pressed a kiss against his experimentally, surprised by their softness. He kissed back gently, and his free hand came up to stroke her hair.

"I-I like your hair," he whispered shyly against her lips, for once not speaking through his pets. "The color reminds me of dark cherries…my favorite fruit."

Mey-Rin smiled against his mouth. “You aren’t going to try to eat it, are you?” she teased.

"No," he answered, "but I would like to smell it."

She found his admission sweet, and it made him irresistible to her. She kissed him again, and his hand slipped down from her hair to her back, gliding over the strings tying the maid apron shut until it rested flat against the small of her back. He pressed closer to her and his mouth became more animated, the lips pressing softly against hers in a sweet, intriguing manner that made her heart beat even faster. She gave a little start of surprise when his moist, warm tongue stroked between her lips, and he immediately stopped and pulled away with a blush.

"I…I’m sorry," he muttered bashfully. "That was r-rude of me. It just felt like the thing to…do…"

He trailed off when she removed her glasses and cupped the back of his head to draw his mouth to hers again. “I don’t mind,” Mey-Rin whispered, and then she kissed him.

He returned the kiss, and he released her hand to put his arms around her. She embraced him in return, and she hardly cared when Oscar began to slither onto her shoulder. His tongue again gently stroked her lips, and she parted them to caress it with her own. He held her more tightly as they explored each other’s mouths, caught in the wonderment of a first, passionate kiss.

It might have lasted longer, if Mey-Rin hadn’t spotted a carriage approaching the gates from the road. She reluctantly broke the kiss to stare with narrowed hazel eyes at the driver as he hopped down and approached the gate.

"Who are they…says Oscar?" asked Snake, unable to see them as well as she could from this distance. He started to reach for the binoculars hanging around his neck, but her next comment stalled him.

"It’s Agni! And Prince Soma is climbing out of the carriage!"

Indeed, the young Indian prince was stepping down with the aid of his ever-watchful servant, and he appeared to be holding a pistol in one hand. Agni looked a bit worse for the wear, from what she could see in the red moonlight. There were dark smudges on his handsome face, his head was bare of his usual headwrap adornment, and his pale hair was crusted with what appeared to be blood. It looked as though he’d suffered a blow to the temple in a ruckus.

Knowing that they were currently living somewhere in London, the maid could easily guess what had happened. “It looks like Agni is hurt.”

"Is they…alive?" inquired Snake gently. Almost as an afterthought, he tagged his usual line to the end of it. "Says Emily."

Agni began to call out, his voice strong and grim in the darkness. “Earl Phantomhive, can you hear me? We require sanctuary, please!”

"He’s alive," confirmed Mey-Rin with some relief. "No zombie would ask to be let in, like that."

"Agreed, says Oscar," answered Snake. "I will go and tell the young master they are here. I’ll bring back more cocoa, too."

She smiled at him. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

Ciel was immediately glomped by the young prince when Baldroy brought him and his servant into the manor, after helping them stable their horses and carriage.

"Ciel! Thank the goddess you are safe!" yelled Soma impulsively, squeezing the breath out of the younger boy.

"Yes, well…air…becoming an…issue," wheezed Ciel.

Agni gently removed his master from the young Earl, smiling in apology at him. “Forgive his enthusiasm, Ciel. We were both very worried about you, when those creatures began to attack. People are dying in the streets and I…I was unable to help them.” He sighed and murmured a prayer to Kali, lowering his gaze in shame.

Soma frowned and put a hand on the taller man’s shoulder. “You did what you could, Agni. The city is overrun by those monsters…those abominations! We would have died too, if we had stayed.”

"Your prince is right," Ciel agreed, gazing up at Agni’s tall form with a remarkably calm expression on his youthful face. "I don’t think anyone can stop what’s happening, right now. All we can do is fortify and wait it out. You’re both welcome to stay here. In fact, your presence increases our chances of survival. We could use your assistance securing the grounds."

"We are at your service," agreed Soma with enthusiasm.

"My hand is yours," said Agni humbly. He looked around with a frown of confusion. "Where is your butler, young Earl?"

"I sent him on an errand," answered Ciel, "to gather information about these abnormalities that have been happening. He should return by morning, if not sooner."

"Then I will be happy to take on his duties until he returns," offered Agni. "With my Prince’s kind permission, of course."

Soma nodded and smiled. “You have it!”

"Ciel!" called Elizabeth as she came into the great hall from the corridor, "Paula and I have finished boarding up the windows to…oh! Prince Soma!"

The blonde girl hastily curtsied to the Indian prince and his companion. “You’re hurt!”

Agni gingerly touched the dried blood on his right temple. “It is only minor. If the Earl will permit, I will tend to it myself with any medical supplies he may have.”

"Of course," agreed Ciel, and then he frowned at Elizabeth. "Boarding the…I thought I told you to leave all of that to myself and the servants!"

She shrugged delicately and gave him a sheepish—but determined—smile. “If we do our part, the mansion will be secured that much faster! I can’t just sit here and be useless when those creatures could come at any moment, can I?”

Ciel relaxed and he sighed. “No, I suppose not.” He reminded himself that Lizzy was an expert swordswoman, and her hands weren’t likely to be damaged from a bit of labor—especially since she had retained the good sense to keep her gloves on. “But it’s getting very late. Please don’t exhaust yourself. It’s unseemly for me to allow my lady to do such tasks at all, but given the circumstances, I suppose propriety will have to wait.”

Lizzy smiled at him and hugged him, unmindful of their audience. “I knew you would understand! All right, I’d better get back to Paula before she nails _herself_ to the window. She isn’t very good at this, you know.”

Blushing from her display of affection, Ciel nodded. “I’ll come and help in a moment.” He returned his attention to his two newest guests. “Please help yourselves to whatever medical supplies you need. You’ll find them in the back pantry of the kitchen. I’m afraid we haven’t any prepared meals to eat, but there is plenty of cheese, bread, fruit and vegetables in storage. Help yourselves.”

"You are most gracious," said Agni politely. "If you wish, I can prepare a hot meal for everyone, after I have seen to my injuries and cleaned up."

"That would be nice," sighed Ciel. A hot meal and some properly prepared tea would be a nice luxury, right about now. Tanaka was the only one currently in the mansion that could prepare either with any skill, and he was asleep for the night.

He went over to the nearest window—which had been boarded up recently by either Finnian or Baldroy. He peered through the cracks between the boards, and he saw lightning on the horizon. The clouds hadn’t yet rolled back in enough to obscure the moon, which hung bloated and red in the sky. It hadn’t shown any signs of waning since the first night it arose looking like that.

"Hurry up, Sebastian," muttered the boy under his breath. His calm façade was getting more difficult to maintain by the hour.

 

* * *

Grell took pity on his lover after the first day of training, and he didn’t demand anything from him that night when they finally returned home. Instead, he rubbed Undertaker’s sore feet, made him a cup of hot cocoa and snuggled up to him. The ancient laughingly accused him of becoming domesticated, to which Grell shrugged and replied that he had to take care of his man, if he wanted him to perform for him. He didn’t press him, though. Undertaker started falling asleep with the mug still in his hands, and Grell hastily retrieved it from him and urged him off the couch and into the bedroom.

That was just day one of training. Day two was more intense. Ronald accurately remarked that “shit was about to get real” when Undertaker tied his hair back with a black ribbon before beginning the day’s exercises. He manifested his scythe as he paced and spoke to the first class of the day.

"I know you’ve all heard the advice: _'Treat your scythe like an extension of yourself'_ enough times to make you want to upchuck,” he said, drawing chuckles and nods from his audience, “but there is a very good reason behind that badgering. As you all know, the death scythe is so much more than a tool, and the situation we’re facing now is a good example of _why_ your training stresses the importance of being one with your scythe, so much. Mr. Spears, please come forward. I need someone to demonstrate with.”

Grell tensed as William obligingly joined Undertaker at the head of the gymnasium, and he dearly hoped this wasn’t motivated by the ancient’s lingering jealousy of him. The last thing they needed was for one of their leaders to be cut in half.

"Show them," Undertaker said; and then he attacked.

William dodged aside quickly, and his pruning pole shot out to strike back, almost as if by reflex. Undertaker responded by doing this marvelous thing that had everyone gasping. He spun in a circle, swinging his scythe almost like a windmill as he did so; angling it so that it swooped low to intercept Will’s scythe, and then up to deflect the follow-up. Both would have been crippling strikes, if they had hit. The move was so full of grace that it almost appeared he was dancing, and Undertaker’s long coat flared out dramatically with the motions.

He immediately retaliated, and the blade of his scythe moaned through the air in that haunting way that sent chills up the spine. It seemed to unnerve William, and he faltered a bit as he extended his pole to block it. The blade clashed against the pole with a jarring screech, making people wince and cover their ears. Undertaker forced William’s pole to lower to the floor, and the brunet gritted his teeth and fought it. While Spears was dealing with that, Undertaker kicked out over the crossed weapons, hitting William in the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. To his credit, he didn’t lose hold of his scythe.

William jumped away and watched Undertaker warily, grimacing in pain. The ancient evidently decided that was enough of a demonstration, however. He gave William a courteous bow, and he stood his scythe upright in a neutral position.

"Well done, Mr. Spears. It wasn’t perfect, but you have a firm grasp on how to handle your scythe in a fight. You may return to your group."

William gave a little bow in return and he rejoined Grell, Allen, Eric and Ronald. Undertaker looked out at the entire assembly as he spoke again. “Attunement with your scythe and your senses are imperative for survival. Now please remove your glasses and put on your blindfolds. We’re going to practice simple blind fighting techniques today, and I want you each to listen with _all_ your senses as I instruct you. Visualize what’s happening around you in your mind’s eye, and be aware of your surroundings at all times. Not to worry; the medics are waiting in the bleachers to care for anyone that gets injured.”

Several reapers grumbled uncomfortably at this point, but nobody dared question him.

 

* * *

The more he watched him instruct his fellow reapers, the more he wanted him. If there had been enough time between sessions for a quickie, Grell surely would have dragged Undertaker off to the locker room and demand that he take him. As it was, the poor man barely had time to refresh and gather his thoughts when one group left, before the other came. Undertaker instructed ten classes in all, each made up of thirty reapers and divided into six groups of five. Management chose only the top three hundred Dispatch agents to receive his tutoring—some of which had been transferred from other branches to help defend the Great Library.

He divided each hour of training up so that every group of five got his personal attention for five minutes, and the rest of the time was spent demonstrating for the entire class. He was finally on his last class for the day, and Grell watched with some concern as the ancient watched them get organized with a visible sigh. He was most definitely fatigued. Training three-hundred reapers per day had taken an understandable toll on him, and he had more days like this ahead of him. Grell assisted when he could and so did William, but in the end, it was all on Undertaker and he was going to have to do this until the fight came to them, the threat ended or until he was satisfied that he’d taught them all he could.

It didn’t help that Mr. Jacobs chose to arrive and watch the lesson, just as Undertaker was getting started. The silver Shinigami noticed the presence of his fellow ancient, and he paused in the act of demonstrating moves to the class. He gave Phillip Jacobs a rather tired nod of greeting, and he gestured gracefully at him.

"Say hello to the pickle…I mean, Mr. Jacobs, class."

Jacobs colored indignity, while muffled laughter rang through the air. “The pickle, am I? How positively juvenile.”

"Sorry old chum." Undertaker shrugged. "My tongue slipped. It’s that sour look stamped on your face, you see. Leaves one with the impression you’ve been soaking in vinegar for a while."

Jacobs removed his hat and he combed his fingers through his grey-streaked, auburn waves of hair. “You have more important things to do than bait me, Undertaker.”

"Hmm, right. Well, have a seat there in the bleachers with the others, then." Undertaker gestured with his scythe at William, Grell and Ronald. "Try not to distract from the lesson. I’m on a schedule, after all."

"Indeed," agreed the senior librarian. "Let’s see if you can hold it together, friend."

He went and took a seat next to Grell, and the redhead was tempted to scoot away from him, because the temptation to kick him in the face was quite powerful. He reined in his annoyance with the man, however, and he watched as his lover finished up the last lesson of the day.

 

* * *

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take," Undertaker said bluntly as he sprawled over the sofa. He’d barely had the energy to eat, when they finally left the training grounds and stopped at one of Grell’s favorite cafes for dinner.

Grell approached with a sympathetic frown, and he knelt before him. He placed his hands on Undertaker’s spread knees and he gave them a squeeze. “You did a fine job, handsome. I spoke to Will about it while you were in the bathroom, and he’s going to put head together with Pops to see about keeping that awful Mr. Jacobs too busy to pester you, from now on.”

"I’d like to see how they’re going to manage that," sighed the mortician. He frowned and he shut his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I’ve got a headache. My eyes aren’t used to looking through these glasses anymore, and it’s taking a toll on me." He took the glasses off and folded them gently, handling them with care as he put them back in their case, despite his complaints.

Grell rose up and he straddled his lap with a smile. “The ponytail can’t be helping. Let me free your glorious tresses from this binding, my love.”

Undertaker smiled and tilted his head forward a bit to give the redhead better access. He settled his hands on Grell’s hips and he laid his forehead against his chest as he untied the ribbon and tugged it out of his hair. Grell’s fingers combed through the freed locks to loosen them, and Undertaker sighed with pleasure and rubbed his bottom.

"Thanks, lovely. That does help a bit."

Grell began to massage his temples. “Mm-hmm. I have selfish reasons for wanting to ease your headache, though.”

Undertaker chuckled softly, realizing that last night was the first night they’d gone without making love since their first time together. “Have I been neglectful of my rose?”

"No more than I could expect," sighed Grell. He bent over to nuzzle the crown of Undertaker’s head affectionately. "You’ve put out ten hour days of almost non-stop training exercises with three hundred Shinigami! That’s an enormous load for anyone to take on, so I can’t be too fussy if I’m not getting as much attention as I’d like."

Undertaker pulled away and tilted his head back to look up at him. “That isn’t a good enough…” he started to yawn, and he hastily covered his mouth. “…excuse,” he finished. “I promised you I would never neglect your needs, my dear.”

The plush, delectable lips parted in a grin to reveal rows of sharp teeth. “I really do adore how devoted you are,” said Grell, “but I can see that you can barely keep your eyes open. Do you remember our discussion yesterday?”

Undertaker struggled to think through the clamor of voices in his head and his scattered memories of the past two days. So much was happening, he had trouble keeping up with it all. “Refresh my memory, love. I’m afraid I don’t know which conversation you mean.”

"I told you to relax and allow me to take care of everything, if you don’t have the energy for your usual intensity with lovemaking." Grell kissed his lips and chin softly, then moved on to his throat. "Would you like that, Undertaker?" His hands stroked over the ancient’s chest, and he began to work the buttons open on his jacket.

"Ah, that." Undertaker smiled, happily intrigued by the offer. "Can I satisfy you that way, though? I know my lady likes her stallion to be aggressive, at times." He started to snicker at his own play on words, and he cleared his throat to hide it.

"You really do have trouble with the poetic euphemisms," chuckled Grell, "but I love you for trying. Yes, you can satisfy me without expending a lot of energy."

He deftly flicked the buttons open until he reached the last one, and then he loosened Undertaker’s tie. He kissed his right ear and he tongued the piercings in it, tracing the barbell on the upper, outer shell with the tip of it before closing his lips over the lobe and sucking gently. Undertaker’s eyes fluttered shut with pleasure and he squirmed a little, reacting quickly to the stimulation. His ears were one of his most potent erogenous zones above the waist, and Grell used that to his advantage now.

"How far would you let me go, Undertaker?" murmured the redhead into his ear as he pulled his jacket open and finished undoing his tie.

"What do you mean, love?" Undertaker cupped his bottom and impulsively ground his hardening crotch against his, finding the intimate friction delightful.

"I mean in bed," answered Grell. He began to unbutton the older reaper’s shirt, next. "Would you…um…"

Sensing that Grell was struggling with something, Undertaker pulled back to look at him. He stroked his back with one hand and caressed his face with the other. “What is it? You started to ask me something last night and you hesitated, just like this. Would the two be related, perchance?”

Grell lowered his gaze, and Undertaker reached up to touch the long fringe of his lashes, smiling. “My, aren’t we shy all the sudden. Just tell me what you want, my dear.”

Grell took a slow breath and looked at him again. “Would you let me top you, tonight?”

Undertaker smirked. “Is that all? I thought you were going to ask to shave my head or dress up like fruit.”

Grell laughed softly, and he kissed him on the mouth before sobering a bit. “I’m serious, though. I’d like to try a different role tonight. It feels natural and right to have you inside of me, but lately I’ve wondered what it would be like to be inside of _you_ , to claim you completely. Go on and tell me it’s silly.”

Undertaker shook his head. “Not a bit.” He smiled, remembering a conversation he’d had with Lillian that touched on this subject. She’d asked if he would let her take him as a man, if she’d had the equipment for it. He said “yes” to her then and he fully intended to say “yes” to Grell now.

"My love," Undertaker murmured, "do you remember what I said to you, concerning your gender? It doesn’t matter to me. Whether you come to me as a man or a woman, you’re still my lady, and I’ll take you however I can get you."

Grell blushed and smiled at him. “But do you _want_ me that way? I don’t want you to do it purely out of obligation.”

Undertaker answered him by sliding his fingers through his hair and drawing him down for a deep, passionate kiss. Though he’d just agreed to bottom for him, his tongue dominated Grell’s in a way that always made him moan. He thrust, caressed and explored while he began to remove Grell’s clothing, and the redhead eagerly reciprocated. Their hands worked the garments free with near desperation as mutual desire took hold, and once he had his lover shirtless, Undertaker got up with a grunt of effort and he took Grell with him. Still kissing him, he supported his bottom and let Grell cling to him as he carried him out of the living room and down the short hallway to the bedroom.

He laid Grell down on the canopy bed and he covertly nudged his boots off, thankful that they weren’t his usual thigh-high combat boots. He directed Grell to lift his legs up and back one at a time so that he could unlace and remove his boots for him, without breaking the kiss.

"Oh, you’re making me want to change my mind," gasped the redhead with a smile as Undertaker ground himself instinctively between his thighs.

"No take-backs tonight, love," insisted the ancient with a grin of his own. "You promised I could lay back and relax while you took care of everything. I’m holding you to that."

"But don’t you think you’re being a bit aggressive, for someone who’s agreed to bottom?"

Undertaker laughed. “My dear, you’re quite aggressive with me and you ‘bottom’ all the time. Taking it up the bum doesn’t make one submissive by default. You know better.”

"Touché," said Grell. "I honestly wouldn’t know what to do with you, if you suddenly became completely submissive."

Undertaker kissed his way down his throat and chest. “Mmm, it isn’t in my nature.” He palmed his love between the thighs, massaging the bulge in his trousers mischievously. “I think I’m going to enjoy this, lovely.”

"God, I hope so," sighed Grell.

Undertaker took that to mean he didn’t have much experience making love this way, and he made a mental note of it. He would help him, but he needed to be subtle about it to save his pride. Grell was a creature that thrived on praise, and he’d been starved of that thanks to his taskmaster of a boss. Undertaker intended to nourish that starved need as much as he could, because being told he was good at something always inflated Grell’s confidence as much as his ego. He would need as much confidence as he could spare, when and if the angels advanced to their realm.

"I know you’ll do right by me," insisted Undertaker.

He undid Grell’s trousers and got them open, and then he got up off of him to tug the garments down and off of his legs. He followed up with the briefs he wore underneath them and he took a moment to look the prone, naked splendor of him up and down, smiling with delight. That charming blush was coloring Grell’s cheeks, and his eyes were bright and heavy-lidded with passion as they gazed back at him through his glasses.

"You make me want to postpone our agreement for another time," Undertaker said candidly. When Grell looked like he might agree with that, he quickly added: "but I won’t. I’ve had my way with you many times since you broke me out of detention, and it’s your turn, tonight."

A brief look of dread and uncertainty flashed over Grell’s expression, but he curbed it quickly and smiled seductively up at him. “Then what are you waiting for, my love? Get the lubricant and remove those trousers. I want you.”

 

* * *

He wished he were half as confident as he sounded. Grell decided that it would behoove him to start slow, so he bade his lover to lie down on his stomach, so that he could give him a massage.

"Hmm, not what I was expecting, but it sounds lovely," said the older reaper with a grin. He obligingly stretched out on his stomach, fluffed the pillows and tucked his arms underneath them. He immediately groaned with pleasure when Grell straddled his hips, sat on his naked ass and began to rub and knead his shoulders.

"Oh dear," observed the redhead when he felt the rock-hard tension under his hands. "My poor baby! You’re so very tense!"

He swept aside the glossy length of Undertaker’s thick hair, so that he could have a clear shot at his back and arms. He leaned over him and he put his lust on the back shelf for the moment, wanting to ease his tension, first. “I’ll make it better,” he promised, kissing Undertaker’s right shoulder. “Just promise you won’t hold it against me when I wake you up again, if you fall asleep on me.”

Undertaker smirked, shutting his eyes. “You have my word. Unh…that feels so good.”

Grell smiled at him as he rubbed the back of his neck, easing the tension there, first. “I don’t often get the chance to massage anyone, so I don’t claim to be an expert. I can at least try to loosen you up a bit.”

Undertaker groaned and sighed. “You’re doing just fine, love. Oh, right there.”

Grell felt the knot of tension under his other hand as he kneaded his way down to the shoulder blade with it. He solicitously pressed and rubbed the spot, provoking a sound from his lover that made him raise an eyebrow.

"Darling, did you just whimper?"

"Probably," agreed the ancient.

Grell chuckled at his shameless candor. That was one of the things he adored about Undertaker; the man made no apologies for his behavior or reactions, and he didn’t care if people approved of him or not. He did seem to want Grell’s approval now and then, which was proof of his love for him.

Grell worked his way over his left shoulder while he tried to ease the tension knot under his right shoulder blade. He admired the toned musculature of his companion’s pale back as he worked. There were many things about a man’s body that he liked beyond the obvious, but he had to admit that a nice pair of shoulders and back muscles was one of his favorites. The line of the hips was another favorite, and Undertaker’s formed a delightful V that always begged the attention of Grell’s tongue. Like the rest of his torso, Undertaker’s back was striped with old scars here and there. One of them circled around from the front, and it looked to Grell like he’d nearly been cut in half at some point.

Grell shuddered to think of how horrid his injuries must have been, and he found it amazing that he had survived them. He doubted an ordinary reaper would have lived through being cut that badly and that often with a death scythe. It was further proof that Undertaker was a bit more than the ordinary reaper, no matter how humble he tried to be about it.

~He didn’t ask for this responsibility, though. All he really wants is to return to his life as a mortician and to be with me.~

The thought made Grell smile. His love wasn’t doing all of this for glory or attention; he was doing it for _them_ , so that they could have the chance they never got when Grell was still human. It made him feel sentimental, and before he knew it, he bent over his prone form to whisper an endearment into his ear.

"I love you."

Undertaker smiled and lifted his head, turning it a bit. “I love you too, my dear.”

He puckered up for a kiss, and Grell obliged him with a grin. Undertaker could be charmingly cute, when he wanted to be. When their lips parted again, the ancient let his head drop back onto the pillow and he sighed.

"And I love what you’re doing to me," he said in a tone of bliss. "Please excuse me if I start to drool. It just means you’re doing fine work."

Grell chuckled. “Please. I’ve seen you drool before.”

Undertaker made another sound that almost lent the impression he was on the verge of climax, and Grell’s smile broadened. “Undertaker?”

"Undertaker isn’t here right now," sighed the ancient. "Please leave a message."

That made Grell laugh outright, and he leaned forward and down to plant several kisses on his shoulder. He straightened back up again and he resumed his work. He pressed and rubbed everywhere he found tension, working his way slowly down his spine to the small of his back. He slid further down the bed and he grinned lecherously as he massaged the firm mounds of his buttocks, making Undertaker snort with amusement. He took a bit of time with that, loving the feel of the smooth skin and tight muscle underneath. It was a shame that Undertaker’s choice of clothing always covered up such a nice bottom, but at least Grell knew other people weren’t getting the chance to stare at it.

He worked his hands down and he massaged each of his legs one at a time, from the top of the thigh all the way to the toes. Undertaker was snoring lightly by the time Grell finished, completely relaxed, now. He was nearly tempted to just cover him up and take care of his own needs in the bathroom, but they had made a deal, and Grell wasn’t prepared to put it on hold. The world could end soon. He couldn’t pass up this opportunity.

He temporarily got off of the bed to fetch the jar of lubricant from the nightstand, conveniently left out by him so that it was close at hand whenever the mood struck them. He unscrewed the lid and he scooped some out, thankful that he’d seen fit to file his nails down, yesterday. His subconscious mind must have really been pushing for this moment. The thought made him smile as he spread the viscous gel over his fingers and got back on the bed.

"Undertaker," he murmured, nudging him gently with his dry hand.

"Mm?" Not a heavy sleeper by nature, Undertaker lifted his head and blinked.

"Do you want me to stop?" Grell bit his lip, hating himself for asking it but unwilling to continue without his full consent.

"Of course not," answered the older reaper. He smiled invitingly over his shoulder at him, his narrow eyes flashing with sleepy desire. "I was just resting my eyes a bit, love. I’m all yours."

"Thank death," sighed Grell sincerely.

Undertaker chuckled, and the redhead faltered. He knew how to prepare himself, of course; he’d done it a few times since becoming Undertaker’s lover, more out of impatience while they were apart than a lack of skill on the ancient’s part. Sometimes he just wanted to be fucked without a lot of foreplay, and there were days on the ship when Grell would make it back to the cabin before Undertaker did. All of his experience preparing himself wasn’t amounting to anything, when it came to preparing someone else. Should he warm his hands first? Offer some warning? Rub his bottom before inserting a finger?

As if he could sense his thoughts, Undertaker offered gentle advice. “Take your time and do what feels natural, kitten. I’m not going anywhere.”

Comforted by his reassurance, Grell followed his instincts. He slipped one hand underneath Undertaker’s hips to fondle his sex, while he began to rub the cleft between his buttocks with his lubed fingers. Undertaker had softened a bit in his sleep, but his shaft quickly began to swell and stiffen again under Grell’s attentions. He lifted his hips a bit to give the redhead more freedom of movement, incidentally pushing himself against one gently probing finger. Grell eased it in carefully, watching Undertaker’s body for signs of tension. The ancient had bundled up his pillow and propped his chin on it, so Grell couldn’t see the expressions on his face as he penetrated him.

"I trust you’ll let me know if I cause any discomfort, my love." He pushed deeper, and Undertaker made a low sound of pleasure in his throat.

"Indeed," agreed Undertaker. "It feels lovely so far, so don’t you worry."

Though he had told Grell he was versatile, the redhead was honestly surprised by how easily he accepted the breech. Undertaker didn’t seem like the sort that would take it this way, but that was probably because Grell was so comfortable with bottoming for him. He was snug around his finger, and it was going to take a bit of care to loosen him enough for his cock. Grell climbed between Undertaker’s parted thighs, silently urging him to part them further for him by nudging one with his knee. Undertaker obeyed the silent command, and Grell stroked him faster. He smiled when his breath quickened, and he knew he could make him come relatively soon, if he wanted to. He might be exhausted, but his libido was apparently at full strength.

He delved in deeper, and he found a familiar spot inside when he was fully encased. He brushed his finger against it experimentally and he felt Undertaker’s cock twitch in his hand in reaction. The silver reaper groaned softly with pleasure. Satisfied that he would be able to nudge it while he made love to him, Grell smiled. He reminded himself not to get greedy, though. Some men like himself loved a lot of attention on it, while others preferred moderation.

"Do you like that, my love?" he prompted, rubbing the spot again. Undertaker tensed a little, and he nodded. "How much pressure should I use?" Grell bent over to kiss his back. "Do you like a firm or gentle touch?"

"Gentle, I think," responded Undertaker breathlessly. "Too much makes me feel like I’ve got to piss."

Grell laid his forehead on the smooth, lean back and he sighed. “What a lovely way to put it.”

Undertaker laughed, inadvertently clenching around his probing finger. “Just being honest, love. I’ll try to think up more romantic responses from now on, though.”

Grell shrugged and kissed his back, forgiving him. They were having fun, and so long as he kept the crude slang and silly comments to a minimum, it wasn’t likely to interfere with Grell’s enjoyment of the encounter. He slipped his finger out to the tip, and then he eased it in again. He pressed light kisses on Undertaker’s back as he began to pump it in and out, coaxing the muscles to relax for him. He fondled his erection steadily, gripping it the way he knew he liked it and stroking it with a sort of reverence.

Undertaker began to hump his hand, and he lifted his head off the pillow and propped himself up on his elbows. His breath hung briefly suspended as Grell petted the gland inside of him, and he exhaled again when the redhead left off. It seemed that moderation was indeed the key to pleasuring Undertaker, when it came to that spot. Grell teased it as he went, never using a lot of pressure and only stimulating it at brief intervals. Soon he was able to include his middle finger, and he slowed his stroking on his erection when the silver reaper’s breath started to catch tellingly.

Grell stopped fondling the twitching length of his sex to grip it gently instead, and he pressed his third finger into his passage carefully. It was a snug fit, but Undertaker didn’t show any signs of discomfort beyond what one could normally expect.

_~He’s ready for me. Oh, I hope I don’t disappoint him.~_

He didn’t want to take him on his stomach like this, though. He wanted to see his face. Grell eased his fingers out of his body and asked him to roll over while he fetched more lubricant for himself. He avoided looking directly at the tempting, specimen of male reaper lying there waiting for him, fearing that he’d get too excited and rush it, if he did. Undertaker was simply too gorgeous for his own good.

"Allow me," offered Undertaker as Grell began to unscrew the jar.

The redhead looked over at him, debating. His gaze went to the long hands resting on Undertaker’s flat, toned stomach and he thought of how good they felt on his sensitive parts. “I don’t think I should let you, right now,” Grell said in apologetic tones. “It’s just that you’re so damned gorgeous, and I want you so badly…I don’t want to risk arriving early.”

Undertaker smiled at him. “Oh, I understand. I’ve employed the same ‘no touching’ rule with you on more than one occasion, when I was getting too randy.”

"Yes, you have." Grell smirked at him. "As Ronnie would say: _'Paybacks are a bitch'._ ”

Undertaker chuckled at that, and he raised his arms and bent them to thread his fingers together behind his head. “Do your worst, my dear.”

For a moment, Grell just stared at the exotic, sensual picture he made. Undertaker looked so delectably handsome right now, with that mass of silver hair spread out beneath him and his lean, scarred body. Grell was so enamored with the sight that he wasn’t paying attention, and a glob of lube dripped from his finger to the floor.

"You’re spilling it, love."

Grell looked down and flushed. “Oh.”

He collected what he needed from the jar, and he put the jar back. He climbed onto the bed as he began to apply the lubricant to his cock, and the way Undertaker watched him do it left little doubt that he was more than ready for this. Grell avoided the temptation to allow his touch to linger for too long; the last thing he needed was to accidentally stroke himself off and come before he could even get inside of his lover. He stretched out on top of Undertaker and he balanced on one arm as he kissed him. He caressed his neck and chest with his free hand, loving the feel of his muscles, skin and scars.

Undertaker kissed him back, shifting a bit restlessly beneath him. He kept his hands behind his head at first, leading Grell to believe he didn’t trust himself to leave them free. His tongue stroked and parried with Grell’s, and a low hum of desire rumbled in his throat as the redhead settled between his spread thighs and rubbed his groin against his.

Grell flexed his bottom and pressed their erections together as they kissed, finding the feel of it fascinating. Most of Undertaker’s greater height was in his longer legs, so Grell found that he could match his torso for length, if not size. He started to move impulsively, and he whimpered into Undertaker’s mouth as the feel of his sex sliding against his made him even more aroused. Undertaker’s hands came out from behind his head, and he sifted his fingers through Grell’s hair.

Just as Grell was about to reach down to position himself for the first thrust, Undertaker suddenly heaved beneath him, dislodging him. He rolled Grell onto his back before he could gather his wits, and he straddled him. Grell stared up at him and sputtered in surprise, Unable to look away from those lazy, silver-lashed eyes and the grinning mouth.

"Wh-what are you—" Grell began, but his inquiry ended in a moan as the silver reaper grasped his cock and lowered himself onto it. Grell sucked in a sharp breath and placed his hands on Undertaker’s straddling thighs, staring helplessly at him as his tight warmth slowly sank down on his erection to sheath it.

"Mm," murmured Undertaker with an approving sigh, and his hair spilled forward to tickle Grell’s chest and arms as he loomed over him, propping his hands on either side of his body. "I got impatient, lovely."

Grell was so fascinated by the feel of his body squeezing his cock, he forgot to be annoyed, at first. It certainly didn’t help that the man had a face to make an angel envious. He dug his short-filed nails into Undertaker’s outer thighs as he began to rock on top of him, his muscles working to keep his full weight off of him.

"What happened to…letting me top?" gasped the redhead.

Undertaker smiled with sensual mischief at him, and he lowered his mouth to his for a brief, teasing kiss. “Would you like me to stop?”

"What sort of insane question is that?" demanded Grell breathlessly. He followed it up with a moan as Undertaker let him out almost to the tip, and then took him in again. It was certainly different from what he was used to, but it felt just as good. He began to thrust beneath him—gingerly, at first.  

Undertaker laughed huskily, his breath catching a bit on the next thrust. His eyes flashed with lust and he sobered when Grell wrapped his fingers around his cock and began to stroke it. “I was only teasing you,” he said, and then he rolled on the bed, taking Grell with him.

Now Grell was on top of him again. He was so surprised by the abrupt move that he didn’t move at all, for a moment. He was still wedged deep inside of his lover, and Undertaker cupped his bottom encouragingly and began to undulate beneath him. Grell shut his eyes and swallowed, overcome with sensations. Undertaker was very, very good. Of course, the man had experience dating back at least as far as the dark ages.

The thought was a sobering one. Of course Undertaker had enjoyed lovers before him, and he couldn’t reasonably find fault with that. Still, Grell suffered uncontrollable jealousy, and the thought of some other man having him this way made him territorial. He could barely stand the thought of a woman being with him, but this was worse because it meant he had let someone else into his body. He couldn’t explain it, but he wanted to make sure Undertaker knew who he belonged to, now.

Grell began to thrust, and it was a bit clumsy and rough at first. He heard the note of discomfort in his companion’s groan and he eased up. He gasped an apology and he kissed Undertaker’s parted lips. The silver reaper caressed the inside of his mouth with his tongue and squeezed his bottom again.

"It’s all right, love," assured Undertaker breathlessly. "I just wasn’t expecting the sudden aggression."

Grell gently resumed his thrusts, and he stared into his eyes. The confession tumbled past his lips before he could stop it. “I started imagining you with another man this way, and it drove me mad.”

Undertaker smiled up at him, and his eyes flashed with amusement and wonder. He took one hand off of his ass to stroke Grell’s hair back from his eyes. “You always were the jealous type, my dear.”

Grell smiled back. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.” His voice was uneven with pleasure, and he began to thrust a little harder again. “Undertaker,” he moaned, at the mercy of his instincts and the feel of his lover so tight around him.

Undertaker embraced him and kissed him, matching his thrusts and lifting his hips a bit to guide the angle of his thrusts. “Ah, love…that’s nice. Just let it happen. Your body knows what to do.”

There was no denying that. Now that he’d gotten started, Grell’s thrusts began to level out and come more smoothly. It helped that Undertaker was synchronizing the motions of his hips with his. His hands settled on Grell’s bottom again, and the redhead found himself thrusting each time they gave an encouraging squeeze. He realized that his lover was directing his motions, but he wasn’t offended. He knew he was doing so much better than he would have without the other man’s guidance. He moaned against his mouth again and he moved his kisses to his arching throat.

One of his favorite things to do was to trace that scar around his neck with his tongue, and Grell did so now. He began to pump his hips harder, and the bed started to hit the wall with the force of his motions. Undertaker’s nails dug into his ass and his groans filled his ears. The tip of his erection was slick with precum and it smeared a glistening trail against Grell’s stomach as his skin rubbed against it with their motions.

"Oh," moaned Grell, on fire with passion now. He bit down on Undertaker’s throat, just over his scar. The ancient hissed and bucked beneath him, evidently enjoying the bite. His blood filled Grell’s mouth, and he swallowed it and licked the wound clean as it closed.

"Little vampire," gasped Undertaker, but he was smiling and he kissed him passionately when his bloodied lips left his throat. He stopped grasping Grell’s bottom and he embraced him again, his breath huffing against his lips. "Don’t stop…lovely. I’m so close."

Grell was close too, and he was very thankful to hear that his lover was on the verge of climax, too. He kept thrusting at the angle he was using, figuring it felt best for Undertaker. He broke the kiss and stared down at his face as Undertaker went taut beneath him. He felt him clenching around his sex as he came, and he felt the warm spurt of his seed against his stomach. He looked so beautiful to Grell in the throes of passion, with his silver lashes veiling his unfocused, dual-colored eyes.

Grell lasted for perhaps another minute after Undertaker came, and then it swept over him so fast he barely had time to take a breath. Undertaker stroked his hair as he cried out and trembled over him, coming hard and fast inside of him. Grell lowered his head to his shoulder and panted as he rode it out, and he collapsed on top of him when it finished. He heard Undertaker’s breathless, satisfied chuckle and he assumed he’d done a good job.

"Tell me you enjoyed that as much as I did," Grell panted, bracing himself.

"Maybe even more," suggested Undertaker.

Grell lifted his head off his shoulder and stared into his eyes. “You aren’t just sparing my pride, are you?”

"No," assured the ancient with a smirk. He combed Grell’s bangs out of his face with his fingers, and then he traced his facial features. "You lacked confidence in the beginning, but you quickly fell into it. You have sensual instincts I’ve never seen matched, lovely."

Grell smiled happily. There was a massive boom of thunder outside at that moment, and the lamp flickered and went out. He sighed. “Well, we’ve lost power.”

Undertaker’s mouth smiled against his as he kissed him. “I wouldn’t worry about it. They’ll probably have it up and running again soon. Just enjoy the moment with me.”

It was impossible not to, despite the storm brewing again outside. Pleasantly exhausted by his efforts, Grell laid his head on his shoulder again and he closed his eyes as Undertaker rubbed his back.

"Thank you," Grell sighed. Though he still preferred taking the role of the receiver, he would definitely like to try it this way again, if they lived through the conflict that he knew in his bones was coming.

Undertaker’s hands stopped moving, and Grell knew he was asleep by the steady, deep rhythm of his breathing. He didn’t mind. He snuggled contentedly against him and he ignored the sound of the storm now raging outside. Sleep soon came to him too, and his dreams were filled with blood.

 

* * *

-To be continued


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

The imbalances in nature continued to occur, both in the Shinigami realm and the mortal one. There were reports from earth of further destruction on several continents, ranging from geological events to tornadoes to meteor showers. In addition, the numbers of the undead continued to rise. Several days had passed in the Shinigami realm, but only two had passed in the mortal one. The severity of the anomalies seemed greater on Earth than in the middle realm.

A week passed by in the Shinigami realm, and each day of grueling training began to take its toll on Undertaker. As the exercises intensified, he found himself struggling against triggers. Each time he deflected an attacker’s blow, it jarred his memory and threatened to send his thoughts careening back to a time and place long gone, by now. He found it more difficult to concentrate, and the voices in his head further interfered with his cognitive processes.

He disguised all of this well enough during training sessions, but in between them he sought out somewhere dark and quiet to calm the raging thoughts in his head. Grell tried to help, but not even his loving attentions could sooth the chaos in Undertaker’s head. One day near the end of the week, William T. Spears went for a drink of water from the fountain in the hallway leading to the locker rooms, and he found Undertaker sitting on the floor, with his back against the wall. The ancient had his knees drawn up and his hands were pressing against the sides of his head.

"Sir, is everything all right?" William asked, stepping away from the water fountain to regard him with a frown.

Undertaker cursed under his breath as the question echoed in his ears and seemed to bounce around inside of his skull. A crack of thunder outside the building made the walls vibrate, and the lights flickered. Undertaker looked up at the young Dispatch supervisor—well, young by _his_ standards…one century old was still just a baby, to Undertaker.

"I’m feeling less like myself by the hour," admitted Undertaker. He chuckled. "And I’m not even sure who ‘myself’ is, any longer. I’m…having difficulty staying _here_.”

William’s expression of concern deepened. “What exactly does that mean, Undertaker?”

The silver reaper heaved a sigh and closed his eyes, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. “It means I’m well on my way to losing it, I think.” He looked up at him again, unable to see his features clearly without his glasses. “Funny how they say insane people aren’t supposed to _know_ they are insane. Am I just the exception to the rule, Mr. Spears, or am I actually the sane one, surrounded by madmen?”

William regarded him warily. “Have you spoken to anyone about this? There are medication possibilities that might level you out.”

Undertaker shook his head and climbed back to his feet. “No. Medicating me will only slow me down, and I can’t train your reapers if I’m witless on drugs. Just…be prepared to act, if I get lost in the woods.”

"What’s happening, to make you fear that you will lose yourself?" pressed William.

"Flashbacks," answered the older reaper. He smirked dryly at him, and he tapped his temple. "The more souls you reap, the more battles you fight, the more it takes a toll on you. There is a reason so many field agents eventually court death themselves, either through suicide or recklessness."

"I see." William frowned in thought. "And the training exercises are triggering these episodes, I take it."

Undertaker nodded, and there was a faint sheen of perspiration on his pale face. “Makes it hard to remember I’m just sparring, sometimes.”

 

* * *

William found that frankly alarming. He compulsively smoothed his hair with one hand, and he adjusted his glasses with his scythe, as was his habit when thinking. “Then perhaps you should step back and take a less physical approach. Slingby, Sutcliff and I can take on the heavy training for you, with your supervision.”

Undertaker looked as though he was seriously considering accepting the offer, but he shook his head and took his glasses off to wipe them. “I’ll carry on, for now—at least through today’s training. A sudden change in the lesson plan might raise suspicions and bugger up morale.”

William couldn’t refute that point. “What do you suggest I do, if you truly begin to lose control?”

Undertaker didn’t smile. “I’d suggest you make sure your medical staff have tranquilizer guns on hand.” He replaced his glasses over his eyes and he gazed at the brunet with slightly haunted eyes.

Grell came out of the bathroom as William started to respond, and Undertaker’s demeanor changed abruptly. He smiled brightly at the redhead as he approached, looking as though nothing at all was wrong. Grell smiled back, and William suffered an interesting moment of jealousy over the way he looked at Undertaker like he was the only person in the world. He knew that it was childish and petty of him. He could have had the redhead years ago, and how many times had he just wished he would move on and leave him be?

William put aside his foolish regrets. He’d only made his ill-advised move on Grell that day because it occurred to him that he was no longer in reserve. He was with Ronald now, and he was very satisfied with their relationship.

"Will," greeted the redhead, distracting William from his thoughts of guilt, regret and annoyance. "I’ve been meaning to speak with you. Could we possibly cancel the last two classes of the day?"

Undertaker sobered. “Love—”

"Shh," hushed Grell, squeezing the taller reaper’s arm. "You’re exhausted. One early day won’t make a difference."

After the conversation that he’d just had with Undertaker, William found himself both agreeing and disagreeing with Grell. An early day _would_ make a difference—to Undertaker. He could see by the warning glance he got from the ancient that Undertaker was trying not to worry his lover. He evidently hadn’t told him how serious it was getting, but Grell sensed his weariness, nonetheless.

William sighed. On the one hand, skipping the training of sixty reapers even for a day wasn’t advisable, under these circumstances. On the other, they _were_ already seasoned agents, and what they were learning under the ancient’s instruction was considered expanded combat training. There was also the unpleasant possibility of Undertaker snapping and taking someone’s head off by accident.

"I think that can be arranged," he agreed. "In fact, we can begin rotation of the training supervision, starting this afternoon. As I said before, Undertaker, the senior officers of this branch could take shifts doing the physical aspects of the training, with you acting as a supervisor over it all."

Grell frowned and looked at his lover. “Why would we need to do that, Will? Undertaker is still the strongest fighter we have. He needs some rest now and then, but that doesn’t mean he should be thrown out of the loop.”

William met the ancient’s eyes, and the annoyed look in them made him wince inwardly. Perhaps he’d said too much. “True, but he still requires rest like any of us,” William answered coolly. “You said so yourself, Sutcliff. Perhaps we can arrange a rotation of his duties, after today. He can train every other class, and supervise the rest. We shall alternate classes each day so that all reaper agents get their chance for hands-on training with him. Is this acceptable to you, Undertaker?”

Undertaker seemed to consider it, and he casually slipped an arm around Grell’s waist and nodded. “It will do.”

 

* * *

Unfortunately, training with the next class proved to be Undertaker’s undoing. Grell was watching him with the fawning eyes of a loving admirer, enjoying the way he performed his deadly dance. He kept thinking of the way that tall, lean body moved in bed, and his cheeks colored with the memory of the way Undertaker had made love to him the night before. The night they switched roles was everything Grell dreamt it could have been and more, but he was happy to return the control to Undertaker, after that.

He was just thinking of the way the ancient had swept him up onto the kitchen counter to ravish him, when an alarmed shout caught his attention. Grell shook himself out of his inappropriate daydreams and he frowned at the sight of his lover, sparring with one of the officers that had transferred from the Paris branch.

“ _Mon Dieu!_ " shouted the Parisian reaper, narrowly avoiding a sweep from Undertaker’s scythe that would have easily chopped his leg off, if he hadn’t moved at the last moment. "Sir, are you—"

Undertaker didn’t answer him. His eyes were wild and fey as he followed it up with another attack that sliced into the agent’s chest, drawing blood and spilling cinematic records. Eric hollered for aid and he grabbed the injured reaper, shoving him out of the way and barely blocking Undertaker’s next swing in time. A couple of other reapers joined him, shouting out for Undertaker to stop. Grell got out of his seat and he stared at his lover with dread.

_~He doesn’t recognize us. He doesn’t know where he is, anymore.~_

He knew he’d been slipping a little, but he didn’t know it was that bad…until now. Undertaker spoke, and the chill in his voice combined with his words made Grell shiver. He didn’t speak with any anger or fear; but there was a dark, frigid confidence in his tone—a promise of death.

"I’ll cut you all down like wheat, before I relinquish my scythe to you."

There was an ear-splitting screech of metal as the ancient’s weapon collided with and slid against another reaper’s axe-like scythe. The owner of said scythe became the unfortunate recipient of a kick to the knee that made an audible crunching sound, and he cried out in agony and fell. Eric dragged him away too, and Alan covered him in case Undertaker decided to pursue. The medics rushed forward from their observation spots on the bleachers to help. 

"Grell, for tha love o’ death, get o’er here an’ help us!" shouted Eric.

Ronald was the one to use the voice of common sense, surprisingly. “Guys, back off! You’re just making it worse, trying to box him in like that!” He looked at Grell, who was approaching with dread in his eyes as he readied his scythe. “Talk to him, Senpai! He might listen to you!”

 

* * *

William was just returning to the building after filing some reports on the training progress, as well as making changes to the schedules. He entered the gymnasium with his umbrella in hand, and he stared in shock at the sight before him. This was no normal training exercise. There were several reapers trying to hold Undertaker at bay without harming him, and the ancient didn’t appear interested in returning the favor. Two reapers were lying on the floor injured, while the healers worked over them. Grell was calling out to his lover, his voice faintly desperate.

Undertaker didn’t seem to recognize even _him_. The reapers surrounding him had to keep a wide berth to avoid the expansive reach of his classic reaping weapon, and Ronald kept yelling for everyone to back off.

“ _How_ do we back off?” demanded Alan anxiously. “Do you think he’ll _let_ us, right now?”

Indeed, Undertaker looked like he was hell-bent on killing them all, and his cold promise to put them to ground for attempting to take his scythe left little doubt in William’s mind of where and when the silver reaper’s flashback had taken him.

Fortunately, William T. Spears took his job—and threats—very seriously. He reached into his blazer for the item he’d procured as a precaution, with Undertaker’s advisement.

 

* * *

"Undertaker! You have to stop this!"

The silver reaper grinned. How many times had they said that to him, since they came for him? Did they honestly think he would lay down his scythe and give it up, if they asked him to stop enough times?

"Make me," he challenged.

One of his attackers came too close, and there was a fantastic spray of red when Undertaker’s spinning scythe lopped his hand right off, sending it twitching to the floor. The young reaper screamed and dropped his scythe, and his fellows moved to help him.

He heard that other voice again, calling out over the ruckus, and it nearly gave him pause. “Darling, I don’t know where you are, but snap _out_ of it! You’re in the Shinigami realm, training other reapers to defend the Great Library of the London branch!”

It sounded familiar to him, and he became confused. A beautiful reaper in the form of a young man with nearly androgynous features pushed his way through the group, and he looked at him with furrowed crimson brows, beneath a mass of long hair of the same color.

"Do you even _know_ me, Undertaker?” demanded the redhead.

The ancient swallowed, shaken. His surroundings changed around him as the flashback memory faded, leaving his perceptions to return to normal. Recognizing his lover, he lowered his scythe in confusion.

"Grell?"

Comprehension came, and with it, a kind of horror he couldn’t recall ever feeling before. “Just what in Hades have I—”

He felt a sting in his side as a tranquilizer dart struck it. Undertaker glanced down at it with a frown, and then he looked across the room at William T. Spears—who stood with the gun in his hand. The medication began to affect him immediately, and he felt the strength leaving his legs. His vision blurred and his scythe hit the floor with a dull, ringing sound, before evaporating from existence. Undertaker went to his knees, and Grell hurried over to him and put his arms around him for support.

The ancient sighed and blinked at William. “Great timing,” he yawned sarcastically. His head bowed over his lover’s shoulder, and he lost consciousness completely.

 

* * *

"Dammit, Will, I had him talking!" Grell snarled at the brunet as he eased his lover onto the floor and stroked the fall of silver hair out of his face.

"We couldn’t risk it," said the supervisor without apology. He nodded at the medics. "Prepare a stretcher to take the Undertaker to the infirmary with the others, and be sure to have him put in a secured room and restrained."

"Will, no," protested Grell, but William snapped a glare at him and spoke over his complaints, his voice stern and uncompromising.

"Until such time as we can determine that Undertaker has indeed come to his senses and is no longer a threat to himself or those around him, restraint is a necessary precaution. That’s the end of it."

Grell faltered and looked down at the reaper at his feet—who was snoring lightly in his drug-induced sleep. Ronald went to his side and squatted down next to him, giving the redhead a consoling pat on the shoulder.

"Don’t worry, they can’t afford to keep him locked up for long," guessed the blond. When William raised a brow at him, Ronald just raised one back and shrugged. "Am I wrong?"

"Just get him to the infirmary with the others," insisted William, not bothering to give the answer that was already obvious to everyone.

 

* * *

Grell suffered a rage of emotions as he sat beside Undertaker’s bed and waited for him to wake up. He looked over at him again, more than a little troubled. In many ways, he couldn’t judge another reaper for deviating from the track. This was different, though. Undertaker had attacked the very people he was trying to train, and if he couldn’t tell friend from foe in a fight…

Undertaker stirred with a low, sleepy groan, distracting Grell from his thoughts. The redhead scooted closer, and he took off his gloves and ran his fingers through his hair. The silver lashes fluttered as those mysterious riveting eyes opened, and Grell smiled down at him.

"Welcome back," he greeted. "Please, tell me you know where you are, darling."

Undertaker looked around in disorientation. “By the looks of it,” he said sluggishly, “I’m in a hospital room.” He tried to move, and he looked down at himself when he found it to be difficult. “Oh look…I’m a mummy again.”

Grell tried to laugh, but it lacked sincerity. “Only temporarily. They had to be sure you wouldn’t wake up on a rampage, you know.”

Undertaker let his head fall back down to the pillow. “Of course.” He shut his eyes and grimaced, vaguely recalling his actions before he came to his senses. “It was like being there all over again. Sometime during the exercise, I lost myself. I’ve had trouble ever since the advanced training began. Did I reap anyone?”

Grell shook his head. “No, nothing that severe. You injured three agents, and they’re going to be fine. One is getting his hand reattached now.”

Undertaker snorted. “And here I am, laughing about it.” He sighed again, shaking his head as he waited for his chuckles to subside. “Sorry, love. Your wording just struck me as funny.”

Grell smiled and rolled his eyes. “ _Everything_ strikes you as funny.”

The older reaper grinned, his teeth flashing with his smile. “Fair enough. So, what’s the decision? Are we back to square one again?”

"Absolutely _not_ ,” assured the redhead. “I’ll go and get someone to release you from that thing, now that you are yourself again.”

He got up to do just that, but then an idea came to him. He stopped, turned and looked at his prone lover, taking note of the restraints wrapping his arms tightly to his chest. An idea came to him, and he began to grin. He glanced at the door, then back to Undertaker.

"You know, they aren’t going to allow you to resume training today, when you leave here." Grell approached the bed, smiling. "I certainly can’t be expected to leave your side, either. I’m the only one here you trust, after all."

"Just barely," quipped Undertaker with a smirk. He looked the redhead up and down. "What did you have in mind, my dear?"

The grin grew wider. “How would you like to play doctor with me, for a while? I rather like the thought of you bound up and helpless in that contraption, while I ride your cock.”

"Is that so?" Undertaker snickered.

"Mm-hmm." Grell winked at him and he closed the remaining distance, climbing onto his lover’s bed to straddle him. He bent over and kissed Undertaker’s jaw and ear teasingly. "What do you say?"

"I say toss a sexy nurse uniform into the mix, and I’m all yours."

"I can arrange that," promised Grell sincerely. "In fact, I know a girl who works here that’s nearly my size."

Undertaker raised an intrigued brow. “And you’re seriously going to borrow a uniform from her, straddle me and have your way with me right here in this hospital room?”

Grell winked again. “Is that a problem?”

"No, just making sure we’re on the same page."

 

* * *

William absently tapped his scythe against the sole of his shoe. The hasty meeting had been called after Undertaker’s episode in the training compound, and now the available senior organization representatives were debating his release. William pushed his glasses further up on his nose and he looked up, taking in the assembled officers seated around the table. Grell was absent due to a conflict of interests, so Ronald was filling in for him as his senior officer. Eric and Alan were there too, as were Mr. Jacobs and Mr. Anderson.

"I’ve decided to sign his release from the hospital," announced William after some thought. Beside him, Ronald nodded and smiled with agreement. Across from them, Eric and Alan glanced at each other uncertainly, but the former gave a nod of support and the latter kept his thoughts to himself.

"Have you thought this through, Spears?" demanded Phillip Jacobs.

"Mr. Sutcliff has confirmed that Undertaker’s…situation…is over with. The examining doctor agreed."

"And you’re just going to allow him to resume where he left off," accused Phillip, "after hospitalizing three agents! This is a disgrace!"

"I’m releasing him under the stipulation that he begins taking medication for his condition," answered William calmly. "They have ways to treat trauma flashbacks, Mr. Jacobs. They’ve been doing it for veteran reapers for years, and many of them have been able to resume soul collection duties."

"He’ll never take them," groused Jacobs.

"That’s his decision to make," said William.

"And if he chooses not to take the medication?" asked Lawrence.

"Then he can no longer physically train our ranks."

William stood up, placed his scythe on the table and leaned over it, propping his palms against the surface. He looked around at his fellow Shinigami and he kept his voice low, serious and even.

"We are at a turning point in our history, gentlemen. If the aggressors break through to our realm, we’re going to be fighting not just for our society, but for our very _existence_. I really can’t think of a more pressing reason to bend the rules and take some risks. While I don’t subscribe to the belief that Undertaker is the key to winning or losing, I sure as hell believe that his presence on the combat field will make a substantial difference.”

"And they aren’t just targeting the Great Library," reasoned Anderson. They’ll attempt to capture the smaller ones in each major branch."

William nodded in agreement. “And that’s why they haven’t sent more agents from other branches to defend London Dispatch. They’re going to have battles of their own to worry about, and they can’t leave the smaller libraries completely unguarded. Still, if they capture the master library here, that’s the end of it for everyone.”

"One thing I don’t get," Ronald said with a frown, "is why these angels want to do something that’s just going to wipe out the lower planes. They’d just be defeating their own purpose, wouldn’t they? What good is it going to do them to have control over the libraries, if there aren’t any more souls coming in to manage?"

"They don’t believe their actions will cause the apocalypse," said Anderson. He took out his pipe and he began to fill it. "As we’ve discussed before, angels tend to lack objectivity. They fully believe they’re on the side of what’s right and good, and they can’t imagine their control over the cataloguing of souls will threaten existence."

"Pfft," muttered Eric sourly. "Have any of them tried looking down, lately?"

Alan nodded in agreement. “The conflict they’re in right now alone is enough to effect the middle plane and Earth. The signs are there. Are they all daft?”

"No, just terribly short-sighted," answered Jacobs. "I’ve had dealings with angels, and the lower choirs are often afflicted with a sort of zealotry, when it comes to their service to the divine."

"Hmm, sounds like a few Shinigami I know," remarked Ronald dryly, with a glance at his superior. William gave him a warning look, and he spread his hands. "I’m just calling it how I see it, Spears Senpai. The angels sound like the worst of our kind, when it comes to thinking out side the box. Demons are more free-thinking than we are, as a whole."

William’s brow twitched, and his handsome features flushed with indignation. “Excuse me, but did you just say that demon kind are better than servants of the Divine?”

"No, I said they’re more _free-thinking_ ,” corrected Ronald with a grimace, taking a step away from him. “Why are you all _looking_ at me like that? It’s the truth! They might be pesky vermin as far as we’re concerned, but you’ve got to admit _they_ aren’t the ones threatening mortal and Shinigami existence. They don’t think strictly within a set of rules, and they aren’t blindly devoted to—”

"That is because demons _haven’t_ any rules,” Jacobs said sternly. “They are creatures of chaos, boy, and they thrive on their lawlessness.”

"Agreed," said William coolly, "and I find it disturbing to hear you talk as if those are admirable qualities, Ronald Knox."

"He had a good point though," Eric defended, "and you said yourself that we need to consider bending the rules a bit, Supervisor Spears. As much contempt as I have for demons, I’m beginning to think there could be some merit to their lawlessness."

"Undertaker practically acts like one," muttered Alan. When everyone stared at him, the young brunet stammered and looked to Ronald for help. "Well, he certainly doesn’t act like any Shinigami agent I’ve ever met!"

"So then we should all wildly swing at anything that comes our way, cutting down our allies as well as our enemies?" scoffed Jacobs. "Undertaker’s behavior should be cause for concern, not admiration!"

"I think what the young men are trying to say," Lawrence interjected after lighting his pipe, "is that we could be looking at a desperate situation. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and being hampered by the weight of rules could facilitate our defeat. Mr. Spears has already covered that, himself." He looked up at the young administrator thoughtfully, and he puffed on his pipe.

William sighed. As much as he liked to rigidly play by the rules, the circumstances of late had pushed him to deviate from his path. He closed his eyes and straightened up, adjusting his glasses again. “Yes. While I prefer we stick to protocol as much as possible during these events, we must be willing to step outside that line, when necessary. I will now go and sign Undertaker’s release forms, and I will discuss the matter further with him. If any of you can offer me a good enough reason why you think the risk outweighs the need, please do so now.”

Nobody looked particularly comfortable with that, but not even Phillip Jacobs seemed able to put up a decent argument, under these conditions. Satisfied that he’d get no further resistance, William nodded and shifted his scythe into a more comfortable position. “Then it’s settled. Mr. Slingby, you and Mr. Humphries will take over supervision of the remaining combat classes for the day. Mr. Knox, come with me.”

 

* * *

Grell checked himself out in the mirror one last time, smiling his most seductive, sexy smile.

"Well hello, Mr. Undertaker," he purred, winking at his reflection. "I’m here to check your vitals. Shall we start with your…pulse?"

He blew a kiss at the image, satisfied. He’d gathered his shiny red hair into a bun, topped it off with a nurse bonnet and dressed himself in a borrowed dress uniform. His legs were longer than the woman who lent the outfit to him, but that worked to his advantage to show off a little more. The only thing he was lacking was the cleavage, and he sighed a bit at the open V of the top—which he’d left unbuttoned for sensual appeal. How much more would his beloved Undertaker drool, if he had a pair of gorgeous, generous breasts to complete the ensemble?

But Undertaker loved him how he was, so Grell shrugged it off. He was male now in form, and his lover had given him every reason to accept and embrace that. Grell adjusted his red fishnet stockings—a well-kept little secret of his that he’d never had the opportunity to take advantage of, before. He kept the stockings tightly rolled up and concealed in an inner pocket of his red jacket, along with a garter belt. Perhaps it was something left over from his human life, since he’d been a stage actress, but just keeping the items on his person made him feel more confident and secure.

He’d never even told his lover about them, but now he was going to share it with him in a most interesting way. Grell smiled again, happy for the chance to finally use the “emergency fishnets”. He pinched his cheeks to bring more color to them, and he left the changing room and the locker room.

 

* * *

"So, I’ve got a kind of crazy idea," Ronald said to his lover as they entered the medical building together.

William smirked briefly. “That isn’t unusual for you.”

"Oh, I think ya might find this idea a little crazier than the others," warned Ronald uncomfortably.

William glanced at him sidelong, and he used his scythe to press the “up” button at the elevator. “Being obtuse about it won’t confirm your suspicion,” he said softly. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

"You’re not gonna like it," predicted the blond seriously, sticking his hands into his pockets.

"Hmph. When do I ever like your ideas, at first?" reminded William. "But regardless of how hair-brained they may seem, you do on occasion come up with some good ones."

The elevator door opened, and they stepped inside. Once it was shut and they were alone, Ronald gave his proposal. “The underworld has as much to lose as we do, if ya think about it,” he began carefully. “If humans get wiped out, what will the demons eat?”

"One another, if there’s any justice," remarked William caustically. "I really don’t care."

"Yeah, well…how many angels could we be looking at? They outnumber us, something like ten to one."

"Overall, yes," agreed William. "But the lower choirs are the ones we need concern ourselves with. If every angel in Heaven were coming for us, we would already be wiped out, by now. We’ve already established that the higher choirs want nothing to do with this conflict, as a whole."

"But they still outnumber us," persisted Ronald. "We’ve only got three hundred seasoned reapers ready to defend this place, compared to what…thousands? Even if none of the archangels or higher choirs join the fight, we’re in for a real shitstorm."

"I thought we’d already established that," said William dryly, "hence the extensive training methods we’ve resorted to, and the employment of a reaper that is just as dangerous to his allies as he is to his enemies."

"That’s the thing, though." Ronald looked at him warily. "Undertaker isn’t the only wild card we could toss into the mix, ya know."

A dawning expression bled into William’s refined, handsome features. “Please tell me you aren’t suggesting what I think you are.”

"They’ve got as much to lose as we do," reiterated the blond. "Even if Hell isn’t wiped out when Earth and the Shinigami realm goes, the residents down there will end up starving. It might not kill them, but it’ll sure make eternity miserable. All I’m saying is it’s something to think about. We already know _one_ demon, and Undertaker’s kind of chummy with his master. Maybe—”

"No," interrupted William sternly. "I will watch the sky get torn down around us, before I allow a pack of demon vermin to set foot in this realm. We have more than just the three hundred elites. We have over six hundred more training each day, and even though they aren’t officer ranks, they are still reapers. This is our fight, and we will handle it without demon intervention."

Ronald sighed. “You’re the boss. I just hope pride doesn’t end up causing the apocalypse.”

 

* * *

"This isn’t quite what I had in mind," Undertaker admitted, looking down at his exposed parts with a frown. "Grell, love…I _like_ having hair down there, and—”

"Shhh," interrupted Grell, pressing his fingertips against the silver reaper’s animated lips to shush him. "The doctor says I need to shave you, before I can give you this examination."

He shifted more comfortably in his straddling position on Undertaker’s thighs, and he opened up the straight razor. He’d pulled the drawstring pants down over his hips, and he’d already lathered up the silver hair surrounding his groin. He’d told the nurses not to let anyone in until he said otherwise, so hopefully they would suffer no interruptions.

"Now, hold still," advised Grell with a giggle. "You might make me shave some inches off the wrong thing, otherwise."

Undertaker regarded him with a blend of amusement, wariness and curiosity. “You really want a man with bald endowments, love?”

"It will make it all look bigger," cooed the redhead, flicking the razor to catch the light. He looked down at the groin he was about to start shaving, and he grinned. "Not that _you_ need any help with that, my love. You’re a bit on the soft side, though.”

"That might be due to your hovering a straight razor over it," Undertaker said dryly. "I might be a drooling lunatic sometimes, but even madman value the safety of their jewels."

"Don’t be a baby," admonished Grell, clucking his tongue. "I’ve pleasured you down there with my mouth, and you never once got nervous about it."

"It’s easy to overlook the risks when I’ve got your mouth around me," said the ancient with a broad grin. His smile softened as Grell gripped him and began to play.

"Mm, so that’s what it’s going to take to earn your trust?" Grell began to stroke him, and he grinned with delight at the expressions of pleasure that flitted over his lover’s face. "Well, the doctor did tell me to give you a thorough examination. What if I massage you while I shave you, and then afterwards, I can…examine you…with my mouth?" He winked down at him.

"You drive a hard bargain, my dear."

 

* * *

"Sir! Officer Spears, you can’t go in there right now!"

William gave the young nurse an annoyed look over his shoulder, urging Ronald to go on ahead as he dealt with her. “I am the administrator of the Dispatch department,” he reminded her coolly, “and my clearance exceeds any restrictions you have on patient visitor limitations.”

"B-but," the woman sputtered.

"Miss, I haven’t the time to debate this with you—"

“ _Oh my shit!_ ”

The hollered exclamation from Ronald startled him out of his thoughts, and William turned to see the blond stumbling away from Undertaker’s hospital room. He’d removed his glasses and he had his eyes covered with one hand.

Alarmed now, William charged over to him. “Ronald,” he called, uncommon anxiety creeping into his voice. “What happened?”

"Don’t look!" warned the blond. "Once you see it, you can’t _un-see_ it!”

Fears of Undertaker suddenly snapping and killing someone in there loomed large in his mind, and for the first time, he wondered if the ancient might actually harm or kill Grell. Half-panicked with the thought, William shoved the door open and readied his death scythe…

…And he immediately regretted it. Grell was straddled on top of Undertaker, dressed in a white nurse’s uniform. His skirt was hiked up to reveal fishnet-clad legs and garters, along with part of his smooth, pale thighs. William stared at the spectacle, taking a moment to digest what was going on. Undertaker was still thoroughly restrained to the bed, so there wasn’t much he could do about the situation. His pants had been tugged down to expose him, and to Grell’s credit, the redhead was already trying to conceal Undertaker’s rather impressive erection by shifting on top of him. A thick lather surrounded the older reaper’s groin, and Grell had a straight razor in one hand.

"Will! It’s not what it looks like!"

Beneath him, Undertaker started to chortle nervously.

William shut his eyes, shook his head and reached blindly for the doorknob. “Grell Sutcliff, you will stop what you are doing, clean up your mess and invite me back in the moment you two are decent. Honestly.”

He started to shut the door, but he paused to give one last, parting order. “And for death’s sake, put on something appropriate. You’ve made a big enough spectacle of yourself, lately.”

 

* * *

Undertaker was embarrassed, certainly. He was more amused by the entire situation than anything though, and he couldn’t stop chuckling as Spears returned to the room with Ronald and a nurse, to free him from his restraints. Grell had prudently dressed in his work uniform, though his lips were still red with lipstick, and Undertaker himself still had crimson kiss marks from them on his face and mouth. Poor Ronald looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there, and he refused to look at either of them. This upset Grell a bit, and once Undertaker was freed from his restraints and the nurse left, he rounded on his former trainee.

"Oh for pity’s sake, Ronnie," sighed Grell, "would you stop looking so traumatized? It isn’t as though you’ve never seen me wear ladies’ clothing before!"

"It’s not the ladies’ clothing that bugs me," corrected Ronald, still not looking at him or Undertaker. "It’s walking in on my Senpai about to shave a guy’s junk while wearing it that’s going to put me in therapy."

Undertaker guffawed.

William sighed at him, glared at Grell, and then gave Ronald a more charitable look of patient annoyance. “Now you’ve got him started again, Knox. You are dismissed from the room. Wait outside for me and I’ll brief them on the situation.”

"Thank death," sighed Ronnie. "Uh, see you later, Senpai." Perking up mischievously, he gave Grell a parting grin and a playful wink. "By the way, you make a hot nurse."

Grell flipped his hair and smiled with amusement. “Was there ever any doubt, darling?”

"Weren’t you supposed to be going?" William snapped at Ronald, prompting him to move faster. When he was gone, the supervisor gave Undertaker the chance to calm down before he began to speak again.

"Now then, I’ve filled out your release forms, Undertaker, but I would like you to consider taking antipsychotic meds to manage your…issues. There are some minor side effects, but the majority of reapers who have taken the medication in the past were able to resume their duties and have a greater quality of life. Though not as severe as you, other Shinigami in the harvesting business have suffered post traumatic stress after so many years of reaping, and many of them have managed it."

William looked down, struggling to convey his thoughts and feelings without losing his professional demeanor. Being humble wasn’t a thing he was accustomed to, either. He knew what Undertaker thought of him, but the man was still his idol…madness aside. “I would like very much to help you, sir, and if the medication works as intended, you may resume your training with our reapers. We could use all the help you can give us now, if you’ll just agree to try. It could work to everyone’s advantage, if you do.”

Undertaker sobered, looking like he was considering the offer. He looked at Grell, who sat on the bed beside him with one hand on his knee. The ancient lowered his white-lashed gaze in thought, his scarred, riveting visage uncommonly serious.

"I might have killed good agents in there, completely by accident," he admitted softly. "If they’d actually been after me, I wouldn’t have given a toss…but…"

He looked down at Grell’s pale hand on his knee, and he covered it with one of his, looking back up at William. “You’re right, Mr. Spears. I can’t keep teaching if I’m going to flip my noggin every time I’m sparring in the presence of a group of reapers. I can’t help defend the library, if I can’t tell friend from foe. What are the side effects of this medicine you want me to try?”

William dug out the pad of paper he kept notes on, and he read out the medication details. “It’s a special formula designed specifically for our kind. It would probably render a human comatose or kill them in one dose, but for reapers, it calms the part of the mind that projects false scenarios under duress. The doctor wished to recommend anxiety medication for you as well, but I didn’t believe you would go for that.”

"You thought right on that," agreed Undertaker with a nod. "Go on."

"Common side effect include mild nausea in the beginning, increased thirst and lowered blood pressure. It is advised for patients to increase their salt intake, if the latter symptom occurs. Less common side effects can include feelings of detachment and a decrease in libido."

William looked up from the text for a moment with a smirk. “Those can actually benefit some reapers on the job, as you can surely imagine.”

He looked down at the page again, ignoring Grell’s horrified expression. “Last but not least, in extreme cases, some patients have experienced heart palpitations and dizziness. If this symptom occurs, it is advised to cease treatment immediately and discuss it with a doctor.”

"Hmm." Undertaker rubbed Grell’s hand. "I don’t much care for that bit about libido. Madness or celibacy…tough choice."

Grell sighed. “If it will help you through this, I can put aside my passion.” He looked at his companion with fawning eyes, and he traced the scar over his face before stroking his disheveled bangs into some semblance of order. “I’m not fond of the idea of losing the madman I’ve come to love even temporarily, but we need you at your best. I don’t want existence to end, if we can help it. That’s no way for Shinigami to perish.”

Undertaker frowned. “I’m not fond of having my personality altered either, but maybe it’s worth a go.” He looked up at William and he gave him a nod. “Have your people write up the prescription, Mr. Spears. I’m willing to give it a chance, at least.”

 

* * *

The first ones began to arrive in the morning, at the break of the pale dawn. The cloud cover was thick and heavy, to the point where one could barely tell the transition from night to day as the morning matured. Upon the rooftop, cloaked in water-resistant material, Mey-Rin waited with Snake. To conserve ammunition, they didn’t begin firing on the intruders right away. Mey-Rin wanted to put them down before they even reached the gate, but Snake gently reminded her that there was likely more to come, and they would eventually break through and make it into the estate grounds. It was best to save the bullets for the ones that posed a more immediate threat. Thankful for his presence and his reasoning, the maid gave him a bashful little smile and she held off.

As the day matured, more of the undead began to arrive, drawn to the presence of the living flesh they sensed. Some were in such a wretched state of decay that chunks of putrid flesh dangled and fell from their shuffling bodies as they moved. Others looked to be newly dead, though missing limbs or sporting gaping holes from where they’d been partially eaten, before rising as one of the zombies.

Ciel and the others watched from the un-boarded windows of the upper floors, and when enough of the undead managed to get over the fence and begin shuffling toward the manor, Ciel finally decided it was time to employ a little crowd control, before it was too late. Agni and Paula were currently downstairs in the kitchen making dinner with Baldroy, while Finnian was taking inventory of ammunition and weapons.

Ciel turned to his fiancé. “Lizzy, please go and tell Baldroy and Finnian to ready the trap and deploy it.”

She smiled nervously and nodded, her golden, curly pigtails bouncing over her shoulders with the motion. “Okay, Ciel!”

The boy turned to Soma, who was staring out the window with a sort of horrified awe on his dusky, aristocratic features. “Soma, go up to the rooftop and tell Mey-Rin and Snake to cover Baldroy and Finny while they work. If anyone gets bitten, it’s the end of them.”

The young Indian Prince clasped his hands and gave a little bow. “Of course, Ciel!”

He hurried away to do as he was asked, and Ciel returned his attention to the scene outside his window. Their numbers were growing fast, and he wondered how many survivors were left in London. He presumed the Yard would have tried to get a handle on it and block off sections of the city to create safe zones, but he had no way of knowing for certain.

What troubled him more than the zombies finding their way to his manor with their single-minded hunger was the lack of his butler. There was no sign of Sebastian yet, and he was late returning from his mission. Sebastian was _never_ late, unless something prevented him from returning to him. Ciel touched his eyepatch, growing more tempted by the moment to use the Faustian brand linking him to his demon and call on him. His pride got on the way, though. Sebastian would tease him for being weak, if he gave into his fear and called him back.

"If he doesn’t return by tomorrow," murmured the young Earl to himself, " _then_ I’ll call for him.”

 

* * *

-To be continued 


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

Baldroy lit up the oiled rag hanging out of the barrel, and he nodded at his companion. “Chuck it, Finny!”

The gardener aimed as carefully as he could, but accuracy was difficult with such a cumbersome thing, under these circumstances. He missed his target, but the barrel did mow down a couple of staggering zombies before the flame reached the gunpowder inside and ignited it. There was a fantastic explosion, followed quickly by the stench of charred, rotten flesh as several of the undead invaders caught fire and began to burn.

"We’ll try another," hollered Finnian, grabbing up a second barrel. A shot rang out in the night, coming from the rooftop. Bard and Finny looked to their left as a zombie fell with a groan, to lie twitching on the ground. "Thanks, Mey-Rin!"

The little maid was too busy concentrating on her next target to answer him. She blew away a second zombie as it closed in on Baldroy, and Snake took out a third near Finnian. Ciel had stepped outside the front doors of the manor, and he began to assist with covering the two men as they set up another barrel.

"Try to be more accurate this time," he called to Finnian.

The young man cringed and looked over his shoulder at his young master with apologetic green eyes. “Yes, sir! I’ll do my best!”

Baldroy lit the barrel and nodded urgently at him, prompting Finny to pick it up, take aim, and heave it out toward the trench he’d dug earlier. This time it landed where it was supposed to, and when it exploded an arching line of fire ignited and spread through the trench, forming a burning mote that incinerated dozens of the zombies on the spot, and drove back crowds more.

Pleased with himself, Finnian smiled and brushed his hands off on his worn pants. “That should hold them off for a bit, Young Master!”

Ciel wasn’t looking at him; he was looking up at the sky, instead. “Get back inside,” he called urgently. Tanaka came out of the manor behind him, and the old former butler began to urge their little Earl back into the house. Finnian looked up to see what the fuss was all about—only to find himself tackled by a larger, heavier male body.

"Bard," gasped the young man after having the wind knocked out of him, "what are you—"

The brilliant flash of light and the smell of ozone permeating the air answered his question better than Baldroy could have. Finny’s eyes went wide as a bolt of lightning struck the spot he’d been standing, seconds ago. He stared up at his rescuer as Baldroy’s rugged face came into sharp relief, lit up by the flash. He heard Mey-Rin and Snake urging them to get inside now, too.

"Oscar says a tornado is coming!" shouted the former circus performer.

"A tornado?" repeated Finnian. "Here?" He’d heard of the weather phenomenon before, but he’d never seen one.

Baldroy looked up, his goggles askew on his face. “Oh, bugger! Come on, kid! Best get inside while we can!”

The older man climbed to his feet, practically yanking Finnian up with him. The little gardener looked over his shoulder as his companion pulled him up the stairs and to the front door, where Ciel and Tanaka stood waiting. He saw the funnel cloud touch down over the hill, less than a mile away, and he heard the distant roaring of the wind. He was so amazed that he stopped in his tracks, and Baldroy picked him up bodily and carried him the rest of the way into the manor. As they passed their lord, Ciel looked up at the rooftops and he cupped his hands over his mouth to shout at the two servants stationed there.

"Abandon your posts and get to the lowest floor of the house," he hollered. "You’re both useless to me if you get taken by the funnel!"

Mey-Rin and Snake wasted no time obeying his order.

"What’s going on?" Finnian asked once they were all inside and Baldroy released him. Tanaka slammed the doors shut and locked them.

"The end of the world, apparently," muttered Ciel.

Soma and Agni were coming to the Great Hall with wood to board up the front doors, and when the latter heard his fellow noble’s announcement he dropped the armload he was carrying.

"What?" demanded the Indian Prince. "Ciel! How could you say such a thing?"

The younger boy looked at him with an aristocratic expression of cool confidence. “Surely you don’t think all of these events are just part of England’s weather patterns?” Ciel smirked. “And please don’t tell me these zombie attacks are a thing you consider normal for my country, either. Have you read the papers, Soma? Don’t Hindus believe in the apocalypse?”

Agni spoke before his master could, bowing respectfully to Ciel as he summarized their beliefs. “It is true that we Hindus believe there will be a time of great chaos, but we do not believe the world will ever ‘end’. When Kali Yuga arrives, there will be much strife and quarreling amongst mankind, followed by terrible chaos. The gods will descend to the earth and bring the Satya Yuga with them. It is the period of truth that will bring peace and light to the world. Many will die in the struggles before Satya Yuga, but the cycle will renew after that and the world will continue on.”

"That sounds much better than our apocalypse," sighed Finnian wistfully.

"Perhaps what is going on really _is_ Kali Yuga,” reasoned Soma, his gold plated earrings glinting in the chandelier light as he looked up at his taller companion. “Those people out there…the zombies? They have lost all sense of reason and goodness. Maybe the gods will come soon and bring us into a new era.”

"But it is not the right time, my prince," reminded Agni softly. We are currently in the wrong Yuga, for this to occur."

"Call it whatever you like," Ciel said, looking out one of the boarded windows. "It won’t matter if we don’t survive the night. Everyone, help Baldroy board up the doors, and then we’ll descend to the basement. I must go and wake Lizzy. Have Mey-Rin and Snake assist when they make it down here."

The servants nodded and saluted, while Agni made a suggestion to his prince. “You should go with the Earl, my prince. This is servant work.”

"If I do not lend my hands to this work, we may not get it done in time," insisted Soma. "I will assist you."

Finnian thought that was awfully big of him, being royalty and all. “Thank you for your help, Prince Soma.”

Soma bowed cordially. “We are equals, this night. Show me what to do.”

 

* * *

While they commenced with boarding up the front doors, Ciel climbed the stairs to the second floor and he took a candelabra from a shelf and lit it, so that he could see the way down the darkened hall more clearly. As his footsteps took him to the guest bedroom his betrothed was resting in with her handmaid, his thoughts again went to his butler and he sighed.

"Where in blazes _are_ you, Sebastian?”

He no longer needed confirmation from Hell that the End Days were upon them, but he could certainly use his demon’s strength and skills, right about now. He couldn’t imagine Sebastian deliberately _abandoning_ him, when his soul was still intact and ripe for the devouring. Something must be wrong. He should have returned, by now.

 

* * *

Grell found his lover in the kitchen, watching something through the window. As he quietly approached, he realized it was a fly caught in a web. Funny, how even here on a higher plane, some species thrived. The silver Shinigami stared with rapt attention as the spider approached, and he didn’t even flinch when lightning struck outside, close enough to bring down a phone line in a rush of sparks.

"Nowhere to go, little friend," murmured Undertaker to the fly. "Soon you’ll be paralyzed, wrapped up nice and tight, and drained of all your fluids. I suppose there are worse ways to go. Pity you weren’t more cautious with your trajectory."

Grell came up and embraced him from behind. “Stop taunting the fly, darling. It can’t understand you.”

Undertaker turned a bit, laying his hands over the slimmer ones resting on his stomach. “It’s strange…the smallest things fascinate me now. I suppose they always did, but now I become absolutely enthralled.”

Grell rested his cheek against his lover’s back, and he slipped his hands into the part in his bathrobe to caress his chest and stomach. He’d been on his medication for three days now, and while they did seem to balance him out for training and prevent further flashbacks, it seemed to the redhead that his wits and reflexes had dulled. Undertaker on a leash wasn’t what they truly needed in the fight that was to come, but he wasn’t sure how to say as much to the ancient, or to his superior. William was doing the best he could with what he had to work with, and that snooty Jacobs was watching Undertaker like a hawk, practically salivating at the thought of him making a mistake and proving himself unfit for the task set before him.

The one fortunate thing Grell could say about the medications was that they hadn’t damaged Undertaker’s virility one tiny bit. He smiled a little as he dragged his short but sharp nails down the taller man’s abs, tracing the muscles. He followed up by caressing the lines of his narrow hips—incidentally one of his favorite parts of Undertaker’s body. He leaned over a bit and peeked at Undertaker’s reflection as he burrowed under the belt tying his garments shut and grasped the base of his sex, giving it a possessive squeeze.

"Feeling frisky, are we?" guessed the ancient, smirking at him through the reflection in the glass.

Grell stared at the image, and he again had to admire how beautiful the man was. He gave his length a stroke, and he smiled. “Is it really necessary for you to ask such a question, my love? When have you known me not to be ‘frisky’?”

Undertaker turned around and he cupped the redhead’s bottom, lifting him up easily with a grin. Grell retained his grip on his hardening flesh, and he ran his tongue over Undertaker’s lips teasingly.

"Mm, I’m a very fortunate lunatic, to have such a passionate and attentive wife," remarked Undertaker with a wink, and he began to carry Grell out of the kitchen and toward the living room area.

“ _Wife_?” repeated Grell, a little puzzled. “My love, as much delight as I took in playing the role of your wife in the ship, that masquerade is long over.”

"I’m not talking about a masquerade," said Undertaker huskily, his lips pressing soft, seductive kisses over Grell’s lips and neck. "I’m talking about making it a reality, once this is all finished."

Grell completely lost his train of thought, and he stared at him with shock. “D-darling, as much as I love to be treated as a lady, I can’t change the biological facts and neither can you. The laws of _both_ realms require a groom and a bride, for a wedding to take place.”

Undertaker shrugged. “Then go as my bride. I sincerely doubt any humans will be able to tell. You were every bit the lady, aboard the ship.”

"I think your medication is making you thick," accused Grell. He moaned softly with desire when Undertaker carried him into the bedroom, dropped him on his bed and covered his body with his.

"I’m not being thick," insisted the older reaper in a purring voice. He nibbled Grell’s ear and he rocked into his touch, pumping his erection back and forth in his grip. "I want to marry you. If not in this world, than in the human one. Don’t tell me you don’t think you’d look glorious in a lacy white gown, with a trail reaching from one end of the church to the other."

Grell’s breath quickened as the taller man began to reciprocated his touch, his lips seducing him all the while. “Do you really mean all of this?”

Undertaker shrugged out of his robe as Grell pulled it open desperately. He smiled down at him, his silver hair spilling around his shoulders to drape them both like gossamer silk. “Ask me again when this is over and I’m off of this infernal medicine, if you doubt it. You are my one and only, Grell.”

The endearment silenced any further arguments Grell might have come up with.

 

* * *

The next day, Ronald stood beside William and watched as Undertaker trained a batch of Shinigami. As planned, they rotated the schedule between him, Grell, William and Eric. So far it seemed to be working. The meds kept the ancient level, and there wasn’t as much pressure on him with the senior officers taking on the other groups.

"So, what do you think?" Ronald asked his companion, keeping his eyes on Undertaker.

"I think they’ve improved as much as can be expected, in the amount of time we’ve had to work with," answered William.

"I meant about Undertaker," corrected Ronald. He nodded at the ancient. "Is it just me, or does he seem a little…dull?"

William frowned, his gaze straying to the reaper in question. “He could still easily overpower almost any one of us.”

“ _Almost,_ " repeated Ronald. "That’s just it. Undertaker without meds could take on any reaper here and come out on top—even you. Now I could probably bring him down, and as much as I kick butt, even I can admit I’m not as good as you or Sutcliff Senpai."

William adjusted his glasses uncomfortably. “What would you have me do, Ronald? Without the anti-psychotics, he’s prone to episodes that endanger everyone around him. We can’t allow him to train our agents if he’s just as likely to cut them all down as to teach them.”

Ronald shrugged. “Yeah, but what happens when the fight comes to us? Do we really want him going out there without his fire?”

William eyed the silver reaper thoughtfully. “We may have no choice, Ron. Undertaker can’t be very much good to our side if he can’t tell a friend from a foe, once he begins fighting. Even an Undertaker with dulled senses is better than an indiscriminant madman.”

"Hmph, if you say so." Ronald looked out the window at the gale-force winds tearing through the city. Several power lines had been knocked over, and the training facility was running on generators, now. "Personally, I think if the fight _does_ come to us, we could use a little madman.”

The Dispatch supervisor smirked sidelong at him in a rare display of dry humor. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Ronald grinned. “I just think maybe now isn’t the time to—”

Before he could finish his sentence, there was a terrifying rumble, followed by a cracking, rending sound. The floor shook and the overhead lights swayed. Shouts of alarm rang out as reapers braced themselves, and several of them fell to the floor. William hastily grabbed Ronald by the arm and pulled him beneath the threshold of the doorway leading to the locker rooms, and Undertaker caught hold of Grell and supported him.

The tremors got worse, until the floor began to crack and open up. Alan barely jumped away in time to avoid being swallowed up in the fissure as it spread, and several reapers only escaped the same fate because their brethren caught them as they started to fall. The quake began to ease up, and when the last of the tremors died away, the Shinigami cautiously approached the gigantic split down the center of the gymnasium. Bits of ceiling came down, and Eric cautioned people to watch their heads.

Ronald approached the fissure and he blew a low whistle as he squatted by the edge and peered into it. “Now, that is one big crack,” he remarked.

"Right," agreed Undertaker. "I think that concludes our lesson for the day, gents."

 

* * *

That evening, Undertaker stood indecisively in the bedroom he now shared with Grell, and he stared at the bottle of pills in his hand. Though the voices of the fates and the dead were quieter now, he could feel the weight of Heaven pressing down, and he knew time was running out quickly. He closed his fingers over the bottle, and the tips of the long black nails of his thumb and middle finger met.

"Undertaker," called Grell from the front door, "You’d better appreciate this and make good use of it, because I will _not_ be going out in that mess again!”

The ancient turned his head and frowned, wondering for a moment what Grell was talking about. “Oh,” he murmured, nodding. “The baking ingredients.”

Bless his passionate, reckless heart, Grell insisted on braving the weather to go and purchase some groceries, so that Undertaker could bake his favorite cookies. It was so easy to forget little things like that, when the big things were so dominant in his mind.

"Thanks, love," called Undertaker. "I’ll get started on them in a moment."

Grell came into the bathroom a few seconds later, and he passed by the taller reaper to get a towel out of the cabinet. His crimson hair was soaked, as was his clothing. His footsteps squeaked and squished as he walked, indicating that his socks were in a similar drenched state. He began to towel dry his hair, and he looked at Undertaker through the mirror. His long-lashed gaze flicked down to the pills in his hand and he sighed.

Undertaker smirked a little. He knew Grell hated to see him medicated, but he’d been supportive, so far. He stared at the pills, began to open the bottle, and then changed his mind. He nearly flushed them down the toilet, but he thought better of it and he set the bottle down on the counter, next to the sink.

"Darling?"

Undertaker looked into Grell’s eyes through the reflection, and he compressed his lips and shook his head grimly. “I’ve shown Dispatch everything I can. You all know the techniques now, so there’s no need for me to continue training.”

Grell misunderstood his intention, and his expression darkened. “Are you leaving us, then? Are you leaving _me_?”

It was so ridiculous a notion that Undertaker chortled with laughter. He turned around and he took the redhead into his arms, unmindful of his soaked state. “Now where did you get that, out of what I said, hmm?” He kissed him lightly on the mouth, and he licked rainwater from his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I’m not going anywhere until this is finished, my dear. I’ve simply chosen not to chain myself up.”

He looked at the pills, and he stroked Grell’s damp hair as the smaller man’s arms went around his waist. “The meds quiet down the thunder in my head, true enough,” he explained softly, “but I can feel my edge leaving me. I know the others have noticed, as well.”

"Yes," agreed Grell, "but if the meds help you to focus—"

"My wits are a lot faster without them," assured the older reaper, "and I know you think so too."

Grell nodded. “Absolutely.” He pulled away a bit to look up at him, and his smile only wavered a little bit. “I’ve never wanted you on a leash, you lovely silver nightmare.”

"And when the fight comes, I won’t be on one," agreed Undertaker. "Now that I’ve taught your department all the important bits about blind fighting, I can leave the rest to them. There’s only one little problem."

"You’re just as likely to slice any of us in half as any angels?" guessed Grell, smirking.

"Unfortunately," agreed Undertaker with a sigh. "That’s the trade-off. While I can do my best to avoid slipping into delusions of the past, it’s better that I stand alone, when the fighting begins."

The expression on Grell’s face was proof enough of how he felt about that. “Far be it from me to lecture protocol, but we’re supposed to have a partner at all times. Even a reaper as mighty as you should have someone to watch your back, and who better than myself?”

Undertaker caressed his face, smearing the raindrops over his pale skin. “Believe me, there’s no-one else I’d want at my side more than you, but I can’t take that chance.”

"Don’t you think you’re jumping to rather grim conclusions?"

Undertaker grinned broadly at that. “Nice play on words, love.”

Grell seemed to realize what he’d just said, and he chuckled and rubbed Undertaker’s back. “I mean it, though. You’re so certain you’ll lose your head and start slashing everyone around you, but you’ve only had one episode so far, and that was after days of almost _non-stop_ training. You were exhausted, and the pressure to be the reaper you once were—rather than who you are now—couldn’t have helped with that.”

Undertaker lowered his gaze, and he reached up to take off the special, custom glasses he wore. He looked at Grell with his own eyes, un-aided by Shinigami visual wear, and he smiled tenderly at him.

"Who am I, Grell?"

The redhead didn’t hesitate, even a little bit. “You’re my mortician, the Undertaker.” He put his arms around the taller man’s neck and he drew his head down, pausing just before their lips met to finish in a whisper: “and I’ll reap anyone who tries to say otherwise.”

The soft but passionate response was all he needed to hear. Undertaker embraced him tightly and kissed him, losing himself in the feel of his slender body pressed up so tightly against his. He was his Lillian, he was his Grell…the body didn’t matter, and he adored his male one as much as he had the female one. Being with him was what mattered the most to him now, and he meant to make that happen.

 

* * *

The tornado sideswiped the Phantomhive estate, taking out several undead with it, but that alone caused enough damage to break windows on the upper levels and cause massive damage to one side of the house. Ciel knew they were in trouble when he heard the shuffling footsteps of the zombies upstairs, and he rolled his eye in exasperation.

"Are…are they going to get us?" Paula whimpered, holding her mistress close.

"Absolutely not," promised Ciel. He looked around at the others. "But we _do_ need to assess how great the damage is and try to repair it, to keep more of those things from breaching this manor. We can’t allow them to box us in.”

He looked at Agni and Baldroy. “You two come with me. There can’t be very many of them inside yet, and the three of us should be able to handle them. The rest of you, stay here and protect the women.”

"Hey!" Mey-Rin said indignantly, before she could stop herself. A few feet away from her, Elizabeth also looked miffed. "Beggin’ your pardon, young master, but I’m no damsel in distress! I should come with you! You might find yourself needing my rifle."

Snake pressed close to her eagerly, his current serpentine companion snugly coiled around his neck. “We sh-should come too,” he stammered, blushing furiously when people looked at him. “Says Oscar.”

Ciel frowned a bit, but he shrugged. “Very well. Baldroy, you stay here, then. The four of us should be plenty to secure the first floor. We’ll call you out when it’s safe.”

"What if you need our help?" Finnian asked worriedly.

"Then I’ll call for you," promised Ciel. "But if I think we’ll all just be overwhelmed, we may need to make a run for the second level and attempt to seal it off. At least if we go _up_ , we’ll still have somewhere to escape to should they begin to reach us.”

"Why don’t we all go, then?" suggested Soma, crinkling his nose. "It does not make much sense for us to wait down here while you go and look, if we may need to flee upstairs."

"Because I’m trying to protect…oh, never mind," sighed the Earl. He could tell by the stubborn look growing on Lizzy’s face that she’d never let him protect her the way he wanted…not in a situation like this. She’d already proven her mettle before and gentlemanly values aside, he knew she could be an asset in a fight.

"Just let the four of us go first," he compromised, "and we’ll call you up when the immediate area is clear."

Evidently, they found his idea to be acceptable. Satisfied that he’d won that small battle, Ciel checked his pistol and he nodded at his companions. Agni went first, unraveling his blessed hand from the wrap he kept it in when not using its special properties. Mey-Rin followed behind him, with Snake and Ciel in the rear. The others waited in tense silence as the four of them went up the stairs and opened the cellar door to investigate.

Agni was immediately set upon by two of the invaders; an old man with his left arm missing, and a younger one that might have passed for one of the living, were it not for the milky film covering his blank, dead eyes. The Braham kicked the younger zombie away, while grabbing the older one’s head and twisting it until the neck broke. It didn’t stop the creature, but the bullet fired into its skull by Mey-Rin did. A second shot rang out as Snake followed suit, and a third when his first shot hit the zombie in the neck instead of the head. Both of them went down, only to be replaced by a staggering woman.

"Forgive me, Miss," Agni apologized, before using his blessed hand to crush her skull and send her toppling on top of her fellows.

"Well, that was pleasant," Ciel remarked sarcastically.

"Sir, look out!" cried Mey-Rin, and Ciel promptly hit the floor as she took aim at something over his head, behind him.

Ciel grimaced as he felt bits of…something…thud against his back wetly. He put his hands down on the floor and he nearly gagged when his fingers got tangled up in hair attached to a bloody fragment of skull. “Could you possibly dispose of them a bit less…messily?”

Before Agni or the others could answer, a deeper darkness formed between them and Ciel, and a primal, inhuman presence could be felt from it. Snake and Mey-Rin recoiled instinctively, while Agni fell into a fighting stance. Ciel wasn’t worried, though, for the darkness spawned drifting raven’s feathers, and he recognized the glittering, crimson gaze that materialized within it before anyone else could.

"Young master does like to keep things tidy," said a low, sensual male voice. The darkness dissipated, and Sebastian Michaelis stood before them in all his pale, demonic glory.

Ciel’s relief didn’t show in his face or tone. “You’re late,” he snapped.

Sebastian put a white-gloved hand over his chest, smiled benignly and bowed. “My apologies, Sir. Time moves differently in Hell than it does in this realm. To my senses, I was gone for but a day, but now that I have returned, I know it has been three. You’ll be happy to know that there is indeed an apocalypse on its way, according to my demonic associates.”

"And are they just going to stand back and allow it?" pressed Ciel.

"Unfortunately, we can do nothing to prevent it," sighed the demon butler. "This is all due to a battle being waged in Heaven, over the fate of the Shinigami libraries—particularly the Great Library housed in the realm of the London Dispatch."

"The world’s going to end because someone didn’t turn their books in on time?" Mey-Rin squealed in disbelief.

Sebastian gave her a patiently exasperated look, and he shook his head. “No. It is going to end because the lowest choir of angels believe they would be better caretakers for the souls of the deceased than the reapers are. As I understand it, reapers are chosen specifically for the job because they are capable of judging souls from a neutral standpoint, with no strong feelings one way or the other about whether a soul goes to Heaven, Hell, Purgatory or to be reborn.”

Sebastian smirked. “Much as it pains me to say it, Young Master, neither angels nor my kind are capable of making such a judgment without our own natures interfering with the outcome. We demons feed on souls, but we take only our share. Creation and the afterlife is all connected, and it all hangs in a delicate balance.”

"And when that balance is disrupted, it threatens all life," said Agni with a nod of understanding. "But the Suras—those you call ‘angels’—are beings of pure light. They have no contrast. Just as…" He looked at Sebastian uncomfortably, aware by now of his nature.

"Just as I am pure darkness," answered the butler for him with a polite smile and a nod. "Have no fear, I take no offense at the truth."

"But even darkness reveals shades of grey at times," insisted Agni.

Sebastian and Ciel exchanged an amused glance. “When it suites my purpose,” agreed the demon.

The moans and shuffling of more zombies distracted them from the conversation, and Ciel narrowed his eye at the corridor. “We need to find out where they’re getting in and block it off,” he reminded them. He looked up at his butler, and he tugged his eyepatch to the side to reveal the glowing, Faustian brand in his right eye. “Sebastian, clear this manor of zombies and keep any more from getting in while we work. That’s an order.”

Sebastian bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”

 

* * *

Undertaker lay in a veil of nightmares, sweating as he tossed his head back and forth in his sleep. “N-no,” he gasped, feeling the anger of the heavens pressing down on him.

They would take the library, and all but Heaven, Hell and the higher planes would eventually be destroyed from the imbalance. Creation couldn’t be maintained if the scales were lopsided. Nothing stable could be formed from chaos, and the well of souls would dry up, without the proper rebirth cycle. In their holy purity, the angels would do more harm to their creator’s worlds than they could ever hope to comprehend.

"Undertaker!" called a familiar voice over the booming thunder. "Darling, come out of it!" 

Startled awake by the hands shaking him, Undertaker opened his eyes with a gasp. He saw his beloved’s shadowed worried face looking down at him, and a flash of lightning outside lit up the bedroom in stark white for a moment. Grell himself looked like an angel to him…a glorious creature with hair of blood, skin of alabaster and teeth of ivory. The lightning died and the thunder that followed seemed to shake the whole building.

"Breathe, my love," Grell encouraged, lowering his mouth to his and kissing the ancient’s gasping, parted lips. "Come back to me, from wherever you went."

He had no idea what he might have said in his fever dream. He’d suffered nightmares from his past nearly from the time he shut his eyes until now, and he embraced his lover tightly, burying his face against Grell’s chest. He shut his eyes, not wanting to hear the voices, not wanting to think of the destruction that was sure to come. It was no use, though.

Undertaker sat up, practically crushing Grell against him. He rocked him silently, his head bowing over one of the creamy pale shoulders as he took comfort in his nearness. Heaven and Hell, Limbo and Earth…it was all the same to him, for all he cared. He’d done his part, hadn’t he? He’d serviced the Divine for countless years, and he’d remained in service to the higher powers in a lesser manner after his retirement. He could leave it up to others to hash this out…

But that was precisely the problem; he couldn’t. Doing that meant leaving his own fate strictly up to other beings, and there was also Grell to think about. How could he expect him to love him, if he wouldn’t even fight for their survival?

But in fighting for their survival, he could very well lose himself. Undertaker had created this persona he’d been using, this quirky old funeral director, because it allowed him to interact in the human world and it was such a nice change from the Ferryman he once was. Oh, he’d always had a sense of humor, and he’d always been mischievous, but becoming Undertaker had allowed him to express that side of himself more completely than he’d ever done so, before. He _liked_ that cackling old lunatic in his dusty old shop. He _liked_ caring for the earthly remains of those whose spirits had abandoned the flesh, and he liked to toy with the minds of the living.

He could never go back to that again, if the middle realms fell, and he would never have the future he so desperately wanted with his beloved. Grell was stroking his hair uncertainly, trying his best to soothe him but so unused to seeing him in such a state, he didn’t know how. Undertaker kissed his shoulder and he raised his head, pulling away to look at him through disheveled silver bangs that had already grown below the brow.

"Who am I, love?" He gave Grell a tremulous smile.

Grell stroked his bangs out of his eyes, smiling back at him. “You’re a mad, dusty old fossil,” he answered. “You’re my coffin dwelling mortician, and that won’t change, no matter what role you have to take.”

Undertaker caressed his face, and he gave him a kiss. “Right. Then we’d best be going.”

Grell stared at him in confusion as he pulled the covers aside and climbed out of bed, nude. “Going where, darling? Sunrise isn’t for at least another three hours and the weather is horrendous!”

Undertaker stopped and looked over his shoulder at him, his features settling into a cold, still mask of determination. “We’re about to run out of time, my dear. They’re coming, and if we aren’t assembled before they get here, this is going to be one bugger of a short fight.”

Grell paled. “Oh.”

 

* * *

-To be continued


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

William stirred and groaned, reaching blindly over the form of his bed companion for his phone. “William T. Spears,” he answered automatically, his voice caught in a yawn.

"Will, you need to get up and assemble the reapers," Grell’s voice answered on the other line. "Everyone needs to be in position right away."

William frowned and he looked at his watch, still muzzy-headed with sleep. “Do you know what time it is, Sutcliff?”

"Yes, I see that it’s only three twenty-five," snapped the redhead. "Do you honestly think I would be calling at this hour if it weren’t important? Get everyone together! Undertaker says we’re out of time!"

William propped himself up on his elbows, still sprawled partway across his oblivious, snoring companion. “What do you mean?” he asked tensely, reaching for his glasses. He looked at the window, shuttered with blinds. “Have there been sightings of the enemy?”

"Not yet," answered Grell, "but Undertaker believes they’re coming. Are you really going to question him _now_?”

William grimaced.  Putting faith in a madman was no easy thing, but Undertaker certainly wasn’t a common lunatic. “Fine. I sincerely hope you’re right about this, Grell.”

"If I’m not, then we only have cranky reapers to deal with," insisted the redhead. "Better that than a hoard of angels rampaging through the city while our defenses are down, don’t you think?"

William had to concede his point, and he wondered when in bloody hell Grell Sutcliff started making sense. “Then make your contacts and get the troupes assigned to you ready. I’ll do the same.”

He hung up and he looked down at the sleeping blond beneath him. He started to nudge him, but something made him lower his mouth to Ronald’s slack lips and kiss him, instead. “Ronnie,” he called, using Grell’s term of affection fro him, “wake up.”

"Muh-uh," grumbled the younger reaper. He rolled onto his stomach and burrowed his head under the pillow. "Too early. Try back later."

Not even William was immune to such boyish charm, and he smirked in spite of himself as he ran his hand over Ronald’s back and tugged the covers down. “Not later. _Now_ , Ronald. We need to get up and get mobile. The fight is coming to us.”

Ronald peeked out at him from beneath the pillow, his glittering eye barely visible in the shadows. “Are you serious?”

William raised an exasperated brow. “When have you ever known me to joke about such things, Ronald? Now get up and get dressed. I need to contact Mr. Slingby and we need to get our forces ready.”

Ronald squirmed out from beneath the covers, offering no further questions or arguments. William dialed Eric Slingby’s number, his gaze straying absently to his lover’s pale nudity as the blond rummaged around for his pants.

"It’s me," he said when he got an answer on the other line. "Assemble your teams with your partner. It’s started."

 

* * *

He looked around at the tired, doubtful faces and he kept his expression guardedly serious, for once in no mood to sling jokes. “I know you’re all tired,” said the legendary reaper, “and there’s nothing so unpleasant as being woken up in the dark hours of the morning to assemble for war, but this fight _is_ coming to us, today. We must be on alert and prepare to defend the library.”

Philip Jacobs came out of said library with a frown, his gaze sweeping over the warrior groups before settling on the silver Shinigami standing before them. “Undertaker, a word please?”

The ancient frowned at him and he excused himself to step into the building with him. Lawrence was there as well, and he approached when they entered the grand hall. Before Undertaker could so much as ask what he wanted, Jacobs gave him a disapproving look and an accusation.

"What are you thinking, riling those agents up that way?"

Undertaker narrowed his eyes behind the lenses of the dark silver framed glasses he wore. “I’m thinking they’d best be prepared for the fracas that’s to come,” he answered plainly, “and in order to do that, it was necessary to wake them and get them into position.”

He retrieved the pocket watch from his long coat, and he peered at the time. “When the first light of dawn reaches us…that’s when they’ll come.”

"You sound so certain of that," observed Anderson.

Undertaker smirked and tapped his temple with a gloved finger. “Intuition, old friend. I was visited with a rather strong sense of Knowing this morning, and I thought it best to rally the troops.”

"And if you’re wrong?" demanded Jacobs. "If this turns out to be a false alarm, what then? You’ve got our people worked up and ready for a fight that may not even happen. Think of what that will do to morale, in the end."

"The fight is going to happen," Undertaker said with certainty. "Count on it. If we did things your way, the angels would come down on us while we all lay snug in bed, and they’d probably take the library before we could even respond to their attack. Do you want to stop Armageddon, or would you rather sleep in?"

Jacobs recoiled. “You have been struggling since you took on this position,” he reminded him sternly, “and I for one am not entirely convinced you’re in a rational frame of mind.”

"He’s been fine since he began taking his medication," defended Anderson.

"I’ve stopped taking it."

Both of the other ancients stared at him. “I beg pardon?” Lawrence said, looking politely horrified as he stuck his pipe into his mouth.

"Last night," explained Undertaker. "I elected not to take more of it. I’ve taught these youngsters everything I can in the time we have, and you don’t need a sedated Undertaker fighting in your ranks."

"Neither do we need a _mad one_ ,” hissed Phillip. “What were you thinking? Return to the apartment you share with Sutcliff at once, and take your medication!”

"Now, let’s not make more out of this than it is," advised Lawrence softly, his gaze straying to the front doors. They were open and several reapers—including Grell and Eric—were watching curiously. "Undertaker only slipped once. Perhaps the medication was overkill."

"I’ll tell you what’s going to be ‘overkill’," snapped Jacobs, "when he loses his head on the field and starts chopping off his own allies’ to replace it!"

"That won’t happen," insisted Anderson. He raised a brow at their tall, silver companion. "Will it?"

Undertaker’s gaze flicked between them, the shag of his bangs partly covering his eyes. “If I begin losing my grasp on reality out there, it may,” he admitted, “but that’s why I intend to stand alone. I can’t very well reap our own soldiers if none of them are standing anywhere near me, can I?”

"It would be difficult," agreed Lawrence dryly. He sighed and he took his unlit pipe out of his mouth. "I’m not sure I like the thought of you standing alone, though. We still don’t know what to expect."

Undertaker shrugged. “Angels.”

The glass-maker rolled his eyes heavenward. “Yes, but how many, and which kind? You said yourself that there’s a good chance they’ll have some supporters amongst the higher choirs. We don’t know how great a host may be breaking through.”

"I think our chances of facing down seraphim or cherubim are slim, at best," Undertaker assured him, "though it wouldn’t surprise me to find some archangels in the ranks."

Ignoring Phillips, he put a hand on Lawrence’s shoulder and he smiled at him. “I appreciate your concern, old friend, but I thought hard about this decision and I think it’s for the best. I won’t abandon the library, and I’m not as much good to you if my edge is dulled.”

Anderson sighed and combed his fingers through his gray-streaked hair. “I really do hope you know what you’re doing, Undertaker.”

The retired reaper gave a wild, reckless smile that had both of his associates groaning with dread. “When do I ever, really?”

"Don’t be fool-hearty," advised Anderson. "I agree under the circumstances that your standing within the ranks for this fight may not be the best choice, but there’s no reason you should—"

“ _It’s starting_!” yelled Alan Humphries’ voice. He pushed through the crowd into the library, his eyes wide in his face. “Undertaker, angels have begun to descend from the skies!”

The silver reaper looked at his companions and he gave another shrug. “Well, that settles that. Gentlemen, I’ll take my leave of you and tell your team to get inside.”

Lawrence and Phillip were in charge of the inner defenses, should the enemy break through the outer ranks and make it into the structure. They looked at each other and nodded, all arguments lost in the face of the threat approaching.

 

* * *

Ronald stared up at the skies, and he waved his group forward to their position. Up ahead of him and to the right, William stood on a hill, commanding a larger group of reapers. The library was behind them, and their groups were composed of the top ranking warriors. Grell and Eric led the “shock troops” further out, with Undertaker taking up the lead. Their purpose was to hit the enemy hard and fast, as soon as they came within range. While it stood to reason that the angels would immediately make for the library, the Shinigami defenders had ways to bring them down and force them to fight before they could set one sandaled foot near the structure.

The winged host began to pour from the stormy skies, and the orange disk of the sun made its first hesitant appearance on the horizon, its golden light piercing the cloud cover overhead. The undersides of the clouds seemed to catch fire with the morning rays, and the flash of the ivory wings was a compelling, riveting sight.

Truthfully, all that Ronald Knox could think at first as he witnessed the descent of the angels was: “How beautiful.”

His appreciation for the angelic hosts’ beauty was quickly turned to more appropriate feelings of alarm when Undertaker took a soaring leap from the top of a building and threw a collection of grave markers directly into the ranks of the nearest angels. William followed up by extending his scythe and piercing the wing of one of the males in the lead, whilst shouting for his allies to start bringing them down. The front lines were already heavily embroiled in combat, and Ronald caught a glimpse of Grell Sutcliff leaping toward one of the angels to cut its wings right off with his chainsaw.

A drop of blood struck Ronald’s face, and he winced when smoke arose from the spot and charred his cheek. Apparently, angels bled fire. He hadn’t anticipated that, and he thought now might be a good time to warn his associates.

"Bring out the nets," he called, and he readied his bola—a primitive device that was nonetheless useful under these circumstances. He selected his target—a buxom looking female whom he might have liked to ask on a date, if he weren’t sleeping with his boss and of course, she weren’t trying to end creation.

"Sorry honey, you’re going down." Ronald spun the weapon rapidly and let it fly. The angel shrieked as it struck her in the neck—not his intended target, but it still forced her to land. Other reapers around him were doing much the same, using bolas, nets and even guns in some cases, when their death scythes lacked the reach to strike the airborne enemies. Others like William could extend their scythes great distances, but most of them like Ronald had to improvise.

The angel he’d picked out fell to the ground, and she glared up at him through tangled locks of silver-blue hair as the young reaper followed up with his scythe. She got to her feet and manifested a burning blade in her right hand, just as Ronald reached her. He swung his mower just in time to divert her strike, and he grimaced at the heat of the blade when it came close to nicking his arm. Her eyes were devoid of iris or pupil; colorless in her rage.

"Impure!" She spat, "Unclean!"

"Hey now, I just had a bath last night," he protested, and he hopped over another attack and retaliated. She screamed when his scythe shorn through her left arm, grinding it to pulp before she could avoid his attack. The blond mercilessly cut her down, mowing into her face and grimacing at the gore he created. Her wings flapped spasmodically as she went down, and he didn’t feel particularly proud of his kill.

"They’re really not that tough," he remarked—just as another angel bowled into him. Ronald skidded over the broken terrain helplessly, stunned by the attack. His scythe spun away from him and as he tried to scramble to his feet, a sandaled foot planted on his chest. He looked up to see a blond male angel glaring down at him with livid blue eyes, and he braced himself as the being raised his fiery sword.

The blow never fell. A pruning blade shot out from somewhere behind the angel, and it cut into his wrist, nearly severing his hand. A second attack from the same weapon soon followed, and a third after that. The angel was no longer concerned with Ronald, seeing as it now had three rather severe wounds to consider.

"Get onto your feet, Ronald," William called out, keeping his eyes narrowed on the enemy.

Ronald was already scrambling back to his feet, and William dodged the slap of the angel’s wing. Ronald intended to join him, but another angel came in for the attack as he retrieved his scythe, and he was again put on the defensive.

"Don’t you people know that if you take over the library, the world will end?" demanded Ronald with a grunt as he blocked the flaming sword.

"That is a lie," insisted the angel vehemently. "Foolish Shinigami! You can’t possibly understand, having sprung from a mortal life!"

"Don’t bother trying to reason with these creatures," William advised, having finished off his opponent. He stepped up to Ronald’s side, somehow managing to look immaculate amongst the chaos. There was fighting all around them, and their brief respite clearly wasn’t going to last for long. "The angels suffer tunnel vision, Knox. They’re as single-minded as demons."

"You dare to compare us, beings of light, to the filth of Hell?"

William stood unmoved by the anger in the winged being’s voice. “What else are we to think? Your struggle for power threatens to destroy everything between Heaven and Hell.”

"Uh, I thought we weren’t supposed to be trying to reason with them," reminded Ronald.

A couple more angels broke through the ranks to stand by their comrade’s side, and William readied his scythe. “The conversation is over, apparently.”

 

* * *

_~We’re going to get overrun, if they keep coming.~_

The thought came to Undertaker even as he cut down two of the lesser angels in mid-flight. The reapers were hitting fast and hard, just as he’d instructed, and the angels were fatigued from fighting their way through to this plane…but they still outnumbered them. He heard Grell cry out, and his heart stopped for a moment. He turned with one foot on the edge of the building he’d chosen as his current perch, and he looked down at the embattled Shinigami in the circular courtyard below. He sighed with relief when he saw that his lover’s cry had been one of battle, not pain. Grell had just finished off a female angel, and his face was bathed in red and smoking as he looked up at the ancient.

Grell smiled like a little maniac at him, his regenerative powers already healing the scalding damage from the angelic blood. Undertaker spared a wild, mad grin back at him, relaxing now that he knew he was safe. The redhead was already leading the attack on another group of angels, and Undertaker returned his attention to the sky. The storm was letting up, but it was still overcast. On a rooftop a couple of blocks away, Alan and Eric led their group of warriors, doing their best to keep as many angels away from the library as possible.

Every reaper in the city was in on it, now—even those who hadn’t yet earned their way past the training scythe. Anderson had reported moments ago that the armory began passing out scythes when it became apparent that the officers and lesser agents they had available weren’t going to be enough to defend the Great Library on their own. Now the fledglings were dying in the streets, bravely giving it their all against the enemy to protect the heart of the London Iris.

Undertaker’s phone began to buzz, and he swore softly and dug it out of his pocket. They kept insisting on calling _him_ with these reports, even though he was no longer an agent and his role in this conflict was now restricted purely to slaughter. He yanked the phone out and put it to his ear, snappish in his battle lust and quiet anxiety.

"I’m a busy bloke at the moment," he said crossly into the device, "so make it quick!"

"Undertaker, what is the status in your quadrant?" said the voice of William T. Spears.

Undertaker could have cheerfully throttled him. He knew Grell loved the man, but right now, he almost wished he’d meet his end by flaming sword. “They’re coming down like ants, you wanker. What do you expect?”

"You are a general of this army," remonstrated the supervisor calmly. "Whether you invited the title or not. Calling me a ‘wanker’ and getting pissy is hardly the behavior of a leader, and it won’t help our situation."

"I beg to differ, chap," muttered the ancient. "It’s helping my mood immensely. The north quadrant is holding so far, but we’re losing a lot of fledglings. If you want my advice, have the younglings evacuate to the mortal realm…or even Hell, if you’ve got any interest in sparing their existence."

He saw an ideal target and he grinned. Still holding the phone to his ear, Undertaker took a running leap off the edge of the building and he landed right on the back of a powerful male specimen of angel.

"Things will get worse, before they get better," he promised William, and he jumped off of the startled angel’s back to swing his scythe one-handed at one of its nearby fellows. The angel went down with a scream, crippled with one wing lopped off. Undertaker landed back on the shoulder blades of his original ride and he kicked him savagely in the back of the head, making him swerve and start to fall.

"I’m not inclined to martyr the entirety of the next generation of Shinigami," grunted the silver reaper as his ride collided with another angel. He leaped straight up and his scythe moaned through the air, cutting into both of the winged creatures and splitting the first in half.

Now free-falling to the earth below, Undertaker kept chatting with his companion. “Now, maybe the likes of _you_ don’t care about that,” he said over the whistling wind, and he fell past Grell—who had ascended to the building top he’d been on earlier and now watched with wide, horrified eyes as he dropped. Undertaker winked at him, and he swung his scythe out to catch another passing angel in the side with it. The creature gagged in pain as the blade impaled it, and it started going down with Undertaker using it as a parachute.

"I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go now, chap," informed the ancient as the street rapidly rose up to meet him. "Things to kill, and all. If I were you, I’d think about what I said."

He closed the communication device and put it away, just as his booted feet touched the ground. He dove and rolled away from the angel, and he got to his feet and put an end to it quickly, before it could even attempt to attack him. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he whirled around, very nearly striking first and asking questions later. Grell looked up at him with an odd expression on his face, and Undertaker nearly apologized, before realizing it wasn’t anger on his lover’s features.

"You…you gorgeous, reckless, insane man," gasped the redhead, his pale features smattered with drying blood. "If we weren’t fighting for existence right now, I swear I would have you right against this wall, after such a display of fighting skills!"

Undertaker found himself suffering a rare blush. “Shouldn’t be getting close to me right now, darlin’,” he reminded him, despite the pride that swelled within him for impressing his love so much. He tapped his temple as a reminder. “Insane, remember? I might have cut you, just now.”

Grell looked up at the host coming down from the skies, then at the embattled reapers all around them. He looked back up at Undertaker and he smiled, his eyes flashing. “I’d rather go down to Legendary Death, than one of these simple creatures. Come, I trust you to keep your head enough not to reap me—unless it’s necessary. I want to fight at my man’s side.”

"Grell—"

The redhead interrupted his objection with a kiss, grabbing the lapels of Undertaker’s Jacket to pull him close. “I won’t hear another argument about it,” he insisted after ravishing his mouth passionately enough to draw blood from both their lips with his teeth. The salty taste of the life’s fluid mingling in his mouth only increased Grell’s excitement and urgency. “You’re mine, you old fart, and we’ll go down together, if that’s what fate demands.”

Undertaker smiled at him, his pale lips stained with their blood. “When you put it that way, who am I to refuse? I just hope your faith in me isn’t misplaced, my dear.”

 

* * *

_~This can’t be happening…this can’t be happening…~_

But it was. One minute, William was lecturing him on paying attention and the next, the tip of a flaming sword emerged from his chest, driven through by an angel that landed behind him and stabbed before anyone could have stopped it. Ronald stared with wide eyes as blood bubbled on his lover’s lips, the handsome face aghast with shocked pain. The world seemed to slow down around them, and the young reaper watched with devastated eyes as William T. Spears, the reaper that inspired his generation to apply themselves to the best of their ability, fell to the ground.

Ronald watched him go down, and one of the other reapers on his team noticed as well and stopped to shout out in alarm. Ronald looked up from the bloodied, curled up form of his fallen superior and into the vivid blue eyes of the red-headed male angel that had stabbed him.

"Oh, it’s _on_ , now,” promised the blond with a snarl, and he leaped into the air, with his mower leading the way. He got slapped away by a broad, ivory wing and he flew backwards into a nearby building. It felt like his spine would collapse from the force of the blow as he hit the wall, and cracks webbed out from the impact. Frustrated by his lack of success, Ronald ignored the crushing pain in his back and ribs, and he staggered away from the crater his body had formed in the side of the building.

"Okay, you win that one," coughed Ronald. The officer that had noticed William’s fall earlier made a move to attack the angel, but Ronald stopped him. "No! He’s mine! See to Supervisor Spears and get him to safety!"

He could only pray that William was still alive to save, but he had no time to check. He snarled at the pain as he took another leap, and this time, he was ready for the wing buffet. Ronald swung his scythe to either side, handling it with startling speed for such an unwieldy looking weapon. The angel screamed as the ends of both wings were shredded to bloody pulp, and Ronald followed up with a kick to his face that snapped his head back and interrupted his shouting.

Angered beyond reason, Ronald kept going. He struck the creature again and again, hardly noticing when the fiery sword clattered to the broken ground and extinguished. He struck with feet, knees, elbows and even his forehead at one point, head-butting the angel in the face when it tried to close in on him. His mower sheered into it, cutting its flesh to ribbons and spilling hot blood on the earth. Smoke curled up from the reaper’s suit where the blood splashed it, and some of his hair seared as well when some of it landed in it. He ignored the smell, the burns from skin contact and the grinding pain of fractured ribs as he savaged the creature.

"Ron! Ronald, stop! It’s dead!"

In his haze of bloodlust, he didn’t immediately recognize the voice. Another soon joined it, and strong arms caught him up from behind to pull him away from the remains of his foe. “Knox, get a hold o’ yerself!”

His rage faded, and he recognized the voice as Eric’s. The other voice from earlier belonged to Alan, and the brunet’s youthful, blood-splattered face was worried as he watched his partner wrestle him away from the corpse. His eyes looked past the two of them and his expression went from concerned to alarmed. He readied his scythe and called out a warning.

"Eric, Ronald, incoming!"

Ronald finally regained his wits enough to comprehend what he was hearing, and he turned to face the new threat, just as Alan leapt past him to engage the winged creature. It didn’t appear that the angel was deliberately targeting them; rather, he seemed to be escaping a fracas from up ahead. He saw the brunet raising his scythe to him and he lifted his sword almost desperately. His wings appeared to be on fire, and the smell of burning feathers and flesh was pungent enough to make Ronald want to gag.

Alan released him and joined his partner, his leonine hair falling partway over one eye as he dove across the distance, hitting the angel from behind while Alan deflected its blade with his spinning scythe. Because it wasn’t actually coming in for a specific attack and the reapers were ready for it, the creature went down fast.

"What are you two doing here?" demanded Ronald as Eric pulled his scythe free of the angel’s body. "You’re supposed to be on the outer perimeter, right?"

"Take a look around ya," invited Eric, breathing heavily from exertion. "Tha outer iris of the city is lost, Ronnie. We’ve moved closer tae try an’ help protect tha perimeter around tha library."

"We’re being overrun," added Alan grimly, looking down at the bodies at his feet. He nodded up ahead to the north, where the thickest part of the battle was raging. "Grell and Undertaker are keeping the lines from falling so far, but they told us to move in closer to help you and William."

Hearing his boss’s name, Ronald went pale, and he looked around. “Will? Where is he? Is he still alive?”

"Calm down," advised Eric, grabbing hold of the younger reaper’s shoulders in a comforting, commanding gesture. He nodded off to the left, where a small team of medics was looking after several wounded officers. "He’s down, but he’s no’ out. They’re doin’ wha’ they can fer him an’ tha others tha’ have survived their injuries. Spears won’t depart easily. He’s strong."

"I’m more concerned with holding the lines," muttered Alan with a frown, looking at the violence surging all around them. "They’re closing ranks on us. I don’t know if we’re going to be able to hold indefinitely."

Ronald had no response to that. All that he could think of was William lying there hurt—and possibly dying—because he’d been so busy looking out for him that he hadn’t been watching his own back. He tuned out everything else going on around him and he went to the injured supervisor’s side, grimacing at the smell of scalded flesh and seared material.

Undertaker hadn’t exaggerated the effects of angelic blades on reaper flesh. Not _quite_ as deadly as a scythe, the weapons nonetheless caused injuries that couldn’t heal so quickly, cauterizing the wound as it cut. The one blessing about the wound that William had sustained was how little it bled. The danger was in the possibility of internal organ damage and shock.

Ronald knelt at William’s side, looking down at him anxiously as he laid a hand over his shoulder. He was far too pale; his lips nearly colorless as if he’d suffered a great loss of blood. “Will? Can you hear me?” He reached out to stroke away a dark lock of hair, brushing it out of his eyes. Those eyes opened and looked up at him dazedly, the pupils huge in the double irises, until the green was only a tiny band around the blackness.

"We’ve sedated him for the pain," explained one of the medics. "His wounds will heal with time, but he needs safe recovery."

"I’ll bet those stasis chambers would come in handy for that," sighed Ronald. It was ironic that the very thing William had risked so much to help Grell save Undertaker from was also the thing that could save him.

"The city," said William in a ragged voice, "evacuate it."

Ronald exchanged a frown with Alan, who had knelt down on his other side while Eric went back to rally the officers still fighting around them. “We’ve already decided that won’t do any good, boss. If the library falls, the only Shinigami that are going to survive are the ones that manage to get to the upper planes.”

"Or are already there," said Alan with a nod.

"We’ve…failed," William said with certainty, looking up at the cloudy skies.

Ronald grimaced, having never seen him so defeated before. “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. Grell and Undertaker are still kicking ass and taking names. The outer defenses of the library haven’t gone down yet, and…well, there’s still that _thing_ we talked about, as much as you hate the thought of it.”

"What thing?" asked Alan in confusion. "There’s a thing?"

"No," said William, his eyes flashing despite his feeble condition. He lifted his head weakly and he made a blind grab for Ronald that completely missed, unable to see him clearly with his glasses off. They were lying fractured on the medic’s bag, nearby. "I won’t…rely on help from those…creatures."

"Then I hope you’re ready for the world to end!" snapped Ronald, "because that’s what your pride might cost us! Will, please! It’s not even past noon yet, and we’re losing ground by the minute!"

"What ‘help’ is he talking about?" demanded Alan. "I thought the other branches already sent all the officers they could spare to help with the defense here."

"I’m not talking about other reapers," answered Ronald with a worried look at his stubborn lover. William looked like he was on the verge of passing out again, but he was fighting it admirably. "I’m not talking about the upper planes, either. I’m talking about looking for help a little lower."

"Humans?" Alan’s face crinkled. A lack of sleep and the stress of the situation was clearly taking a toll on him.

"Lower," said Ron with a smirk.

Alan blinked. “Oh, you mean demons.”

"We aren’t requesting aid from their kind," insisted William. "Ronald Knox, you swore to follow me and defer to my authority!"’

"That was before you got skewered like a kabob and the enemy started closing in on us so hard," argued Ronald. He looked around at the medics and at Alan. "Could you guys give us a few minutes? Please?"

Alan looked up to spot his partner, who was embroiled in a rather severe skirmish. “All right, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to be informed of any plans involving the further defense of our territory and I’m sure Eric and the other senior officers feel the same.”

"Fine, I’ll let you all know," promised the blond. "Just give me a couple minutes alone with Spears Senpai."

He had to sell him on the idea, or at least get him to agree that someone else should make the call if he could not.

 

* * *

Grell split another angel right down the center, and he was again grateful for his glasses when the blood splattered his face and made him hiss in pain. “Awful creatures,” he complained. “Why does their blood run so hot? It’s like being splashed with scalding water from a tea kettle, every time I kill one!”

"It’s the holy fire in them," answered his silver companion with a grunt, driving back two other attackers with a wide sweep of his scythe. "Their blood is constantly boiling. Mayhap that’s why these fellows are so hot tempered."

The mortician nudged Grell with his elbow, grinning. “Did you catch that, love? I said—”

"Yes, I caught it," assured the redhead. Ordinarily he would laugh at Undertaker’s jokes, and he did appreciate his ability to maintain a sense of humor under such dire circumstances, but he was starting to feel a bit flat. They’d been fighting non-stop since the sun came up, and there seemed to be no end to the assault in sight. In addition, they’d gotten word that William went down, and Grell was having trouble coping with that, even though he was confirmed to be alive.

Undertaker sobered, and he leaned close to him. “I’m sure Mr. Spears will survive, Grell. The man’s too bloody intransigent to die.”

That made Grell smile a little, and his chainsaw roared as more angels came at them. The regiment they were commanding had dwindled down to less than half, and the remaining twenty-seven struggled to hold the line of the perimeter. They were being driven back, despite the viciousness of his attacks and the grace and tirelessness of Undertaker’s. Angels were nothing to smirk about as opponents went, and he could only imagine how many must have perished in the battle they’d fought with their own kind before breaking through to this realm. They were like roaches, or ants. At first he wondered if there was no end to them, but the numbers coming through the cloud cover were dwindling now.

One small thing in their favor was that it seemed that the angels who disagreed with their attackers were following them through, and many of them were too occupied fighting against their brethren in the sky to make it to the Shinigami forces below. They might actually have a chance, if no archangels showed up to help the enemy.

It wasn’t an archangel Grell had to worry about, though. Undertaker had seemed so confident that none of the higher choirs would get involved beyond the archangels, it didn’t really occur to him that they might see one. He didn’t recognize it for what it was at first, when it descended. All he could see was a flutter of black wings, and his first thought was that it might be one of the corrupted ones Undertaker mentioned briefly; principalities or something.

"Undertaker," called Grell, looking up at the strange being floating down to the rooftop they were on, "what sort of angel is that?"

The ancient looked up, distracted from the two commoner angels he’d cut down. His eyes widened behind his glasses’ lenses and he reached behind him, pushing against Grell’s chest urgently. “Get out of here, my love. Go, now.”

"B-but why?" demanded the redhead in confusion, fighting against the taller reaper’s pushing. He’d never heard Undertaker sound so urgent.

The angel touched down with sandaled feet, and his black wings slowed their frantic flapping. He had three sets rather than one. The bottom wings covered his waist the middle ones spread out to reveal rows of what appeared to be eyes lining them, and the top ones covered his face. Morbidly curious, Grell watched as the upper pair of wings parted to reveal not one, but _four_ faces set in one head. The head swiveled on the neck effortlessly, rather like an owl’s, and the staring faces looked out in all directions. Two appeared male, two appeared female, and if it weren’t for the monstrosity of the physiological makeup of them, the faces themselves were as beautiful as Michelangelo statues.

"What in the _hell_ sort of angel is _that_?” demanded Grell with a pointing gesture at the thing.

"A seraph," answered the older reaper. "Grell, I mean it, go!"

Grell’s confusion was complete. Seraphim were one of the highest choirs of angels. What was one doing involved in this, when Undertaker said they likely didn’t care one way or the other? Always more impulsive than wise, Grell didn’t immediately obey his lover’s command.

"Why is it here? I thought you said—"

"I said a lot of things," snapped the ancient, his eyes blazing with uncommon anger as he took his attention off the angel long enough to glare at the redhead. "If I could understand how their kind thought, we might not be in such a precarious position! Now go, and warn—"

He didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence. The strange looking creature drew an enormous, flaming spear. Grell shouted Undertaker’s name as the seraph struck, but it was too late.

 

* * *

_"Backup! I need some aid, now! Undertaker’s been badly injured!"_

Ronald didn’t think he could go any paler than he already was, but hearing his mentor scream those words through the open channel on the aether communication network tested that theory. He looked down at William, and then at Eric and Alan far up ahead. They had gotten the call too, and Alan shouted something at Eric and waved him away, seeming to urge him to answer Grell’s distress call while he remained behind to keep the lines from wavering. Eric hesitated, wary as always of being parted from young Ronald and the reaper that everyone knew was more than just a work partner to him. Alan smiled at him and said something, and the blond man seemed to sigh before nodding and leaving his side, hastening away with the fluid grace of a practiced Shinigami agent.

"Will, I need an answer now," Ronald urged. "Please! This could be the end of all of us, if you don’t swallow your pride!"

William looked up at him, and he reached up weakly to touch the side of Ronald’s face. Something like tenderness crossed over those rigid, handsome features, and William sighed and looked away, as if he couldn’t bear to see anyone when he spoke.

"Do it."

Ronald blinked. “Really?”

William nodded. “But…send Undertaker. Phantomhive…likes him. Don’t send…Sutcliff, if you really want…to enlist the aid of the demon.”

"Pfft, you didn’t need to tell me that," assured Ron, "but uh, I don’t think we can send Undertaker. He’s been hurt, apparently."

"How…bad?"

Ronald shook his head. “Don’t know. Sutcliff Senpai sounded pretty frantic when he made the call for help, so it must be pretty bad. I know he can be a drama queen, but it would take a heavy blow for him to actually be _afraid_ for Undertaker, like that.”

"Terrific," William sighed in annoyance. "Then someone else…will have to…" He passed out, overcome by his injuries and the medications.

"Will?" Ronald stroked his hair uncertainly torn.

"Best let us see to him," advised one of the medics, "and let him rest. He’ll need all of his strength to recover, if any of us survive this."

There was an explosion from somewhere overhead and Ronald winced. He got back to his feet and looked around, trying to come up with a solution. He could try to go as a messenger, but Sebastian and his master didn’t have a great opinion of him either, seeing as he’d attacked the demon aboard the Campania. They didn’t really know any of the other reapers, but maybe…

His eyes fell on Alan, and the solution came to him. Alan, while as dedicated to his job as the next reaper, had a kindness of spirit about him…a gentleness that had drawn Eric like a bee to honey. If any Shinigami stranger to Phantomhive and Michaelis had a chance of convincing them of the worthiness of their cause, it was him. Ronald turned to look at the medics, affixing them with an uncommonly stern stare.

"Keep him safe," he demanded, "no matter what happens. Withdraw to the library, in fact. Keep him away from the main fighting, and take the other wounded there, too."

The medics looked over their shoulders at the library doubtfully. “That’s the least safest place he could be, if the lines don’t hold,” one of them observed.

"He’ll be safe inside for a while," insisted Ronald, "and it’s pretty much going to be the last sanctuary left before the end comes, if our forces drop. If they make it into that library, it’s over anyhow."

Unable to refute his logic, they obeyed and prepared William and the other wounded for transport to the library.

Ronald took a deep breath, hoping he was doing the right thing. He supposed at this point, it couldn’t do any harm. He made his way through the back ranks, where less experienced reapers used ranged weapons to bring the enemy down for the stronger fighters to engage. He waded through the crowd to Alan, and he jumped back hastily when he touched the brunet’s shoulder and nearly got his guts sliced open for his trouble.

"Whoa, it’s just me," Ronald shouted.

Alan relaxed, looking relieved and annoyed at once. “Don’t just walk up and tap me in the middle of a fight, Ronnie!”

"What, did you think an angel would tap you on the shoulder?" countered the blond with a forced grin. "Listen, I need you to do something for all of us, while I take over here. It could mean saving the world, if we do it right."

Alan glanced around with a frown, looking interested but doubtful. “I’m listening.”

 

* * *

"Don’t look at its eyes!" shouted Grell when Eric arrived on the rooftop.

Seven other reapers were there as well, and two of them lay unmoving, looking as though they’d had a hole blown clean through their chests. The injuries appeared charred, and the smell of cooked flesh permeated the air. Undertaker was lying in a smoking heap a few feet away, and his hair seemed oddly animated. He realized that several strands of it were floating because they were ionized, when he stepped closer and felt the static aura around him. Eric nudged him with his boot, and he twitched. The blond looked up from the ancient, guessing he must still be alive, and he stared at the spectacle before him.

"I said _don’t look_!” hollered Sutcliff, jumping in his way to block his vision. “That…thing shoots lightning from its eyes! Well, one of its sets of eyes. It has four bloody faces to choose from!”

It was hard to envision what Grell was talking about, until a bolt of lightning struck one of the other agents on the roof and sent him flying off of it. Another yelled in agony as a javelin of light hurtled through the air to impale him. They were dropping like flies all over the place.

"Get back," said a familiar voice from the huddle that was Undertaker.

Grell and Eric both looked to see the ancient climbing back to his feet, using his scythe as a staff to support his weight. His pale hair floated around him eerily from the charge his body had retained, and the loose parts of his garments stuck to his body like flypaper. His glasses were cracked, and he pulled them off with a frown and pocketed them with a shrug.

"They give me a headache, anyway."

Though half of his face was blackened, the damage was already nearly healed and bits of dead, charred skin flaked away to reveal new, healthy skin as he grinned like a maniac at the angelic being, and he brushed a gloved hand absently against his garments to try and tame them.

"Sorry, chap. I’m afraid it takes a little more than a skewer and a shock to put me out. As tries go, that was one of the better ones."

With that said, Undertaker took a running leap at the seraph, and he made several attacks at once. Two of the five hurled grave markers struck the angel in its many-eyed wings, while the others missed their mark or were deflected. Undertaker snapped his belt of charms out and slashed either side of the angel’s forward-facing face, drawing fiery blood. His scythe came in next, cutting high as his boot kicked low. All of this happened within seconds, and the creature actually staggered a little under the ferocity and speed of the attack.

"Death," it said when it righted itself, its head swiveling to bring an older, more solemn looking male face to the forefront. "I thought I recognized you."

Undertaker moved to place himself between the angel and the others—who had stopped fighting upon seeing the exchange between them. Eric got the distinct impression that he was trying to buy them some time, but he was so enthralled by the sight of the angel and the way it greeted Undertaker like an old school mate that he couldn’t bring himself to move.

 

* * *

"It’s been some time, hasn’t it?"

Inwardly, Undertaker wished he had a Faustian contract of some sort with his lover so that he could communicate with him mentally, the way Sebastian and Ciel sometimes did.

_~Don’t stand there gawking, my love…take the others and go! Go now!~_

Alas, he had no such ability; though he’d already made it abundantly clear to Grell earlier that he wanted him to vacate. The redhead was as allergic to listening to good advice now as he had been as a human, a century ago. The other young ones stuck around as well, none of them older than a century except for the one with the half-braided lion’s mane.

"It has, indeed," agreed the seraph. "I did not expect to find you here. I thought the troubles of this realm were no longer your concern."

"Undertaker," Grell said from behind him, "who—"

"I’m afraid you’ve gone and made it my business," said Undertaker, ignoring his lover in an attempt to keep the seraphs attention on him, "or at least, your cousins have. Are you aware of what they’re trying to do?"

The seraph nodded, and the eyes lining his wings blinked in unison with the ones on his head. “I am.”

"And you know what it will ultimately do to the Divine’s creations?" pressed Undertaker.

"I do."

The ancient was now very curious. “Why? What can you gain from it?”

"A new start," answered the seraph, "in which my brethren will control the flow of souls to and from life and the afterlife. For too long have the unworthy been allowed to set foot in Heaven. Creation will begin anew, with better standards. Our holy creator cares not for how it is maintained, so long as creation goes on. Everything dies, Death. You know this better than most."

The ancient frowned. “I must admit, I didn’t expect that from you, Barachiel. What interest do you have in the maintenance of the dead, when you have your throne in second Heaven to attend?”

"Your brethren have overstepped themselves," answered the seraph. "They grow arrogant, believing they can command my angels in the higher planes."

Undertaker’s frown deepened, making him appear unfamiliar to those around him. None of them were used to seeing a somber Undertaker at all. “How so? From what I understand, the Shinigami have been doing things much the same way they always did; which was incidentally why I left, but that’s beside the point. What could they possibly have done to insult you, a prince of Heaven?”

"They forget their place, and they grow above their station," answered the angel. His head rotated again, and a woman’s face looked out at Undertaker, her beautiful face bearing a fierce expression. "You are collectors and librarians; nothing more! Some of you have become so corrupted, so impure—"

The female gaze narrowed cold blue eyes on something beyond Undertaker, and he could easily guess it was fixated on his lover. It came as no surprise that Barachiel knew of Grell’s little foray into the world of murder. The ancient reaper stepped in front of his lover again, shielding him from that gaze, though the face responsible for the lightning was facing the back, now.

"Yes, some reapers lost their way…just as some angels have. If you want to sacrifice one of us for sinning, you should choose me." Undertaker smirked, still tasting ash and blood in his mouth. "After all, I had the bollocks to challenge death and mimic resurrection. Murdering a few humans in a period of jealous weakness is mere child’s play, compared to my _deliberately, carefully planned_ violations of natural law.”

He guessed the angel wouldn’t have an issue with his reaping the child-eating cult, and he was right. Barachiel tilted his head at him, the female face taking on an oddly human expression of contemplation. “Yes,” agreed the seraph, “yours was by far the more clever sin…but I can appreciate your desire to be like the Divine.”

Undertaker practically rolled his eyes, but he had others to think about—especially Grell—and he couldn’t afford to wonder at the creature’s logic. “I wasn’t trying to be like the Divine,” he corrected, smiling whitely. “I was trying to outdo it. I was trying to _insult_ it. Do you want to know what I think of the Divine, Barachiel, old chap?”

The angel’s head swiveled again, this time placing a young maiden’s face at the forefront. “What are you saying, Death?”

 

* * *

Behind him, Eric was wondering the same thing. “Yes, what _are_ you saying?” he mused aloud.

Undertaker went on, leaving him and the other reapers—Grell included—standing there wide-eyed with shock.

"I’m saying that the Divine can kiss my pasty white arse," said Undertaker succinctly. "I have no respect for the entire institution. You think I did what I did to be more _like_ our creator? How ridiculous. I did it to _insult_. I did it to spit in the face of—”

"Uh, Undertaker—" Eric broke into a sweat as the creature’s head rotated again, putting the lightning-spitting one at the forefront once more.

"—the Divine. The powers that be use us and discard us, and we aren’t to ask questions," Undertaker went on, "we’re simply supposed to exist and fulfill our purpose. Well, that wasn’t enough for me."

"You sound like…" the seraph hesitated.

"Lucifer?" guessed Undertaker, still smiling broadly. "Never met the fellow myself, but considering he’s not the one trying to tear apart existence over a bit of petty jealousy, he’s a step above you and your folk on morals."

"Oh damn," Eric said in the tone of the doomed when the lightning started to crackle around the angel. The eyes went white—both in the face and on the wings.

"You…I had respect for you, Death," uttered the seraph, "I would have offered you a place near my throne, but you _blaspheme_!”

Undertaker turned to face the witnesses, lifting a brow. “That would be your cue to run, children.”

Eric didn’t waste another moment, and neither did the other reapers—except for Grell. The blond heard him trying to argue with Undertaker, and he swore again and dove for him, dragging him away with him as the top of the roof lit up like Chinese fireworks. He heard Grell scream Undertaker’s name, heard the enraged shout of the seraph, and then he was falling to the torn and buckled street below, with Grell tucked against his chest.

 

* * *

"Shit…it’s no good," swore Ronald. He could see the lightning crackling, and more dark clouds came in to blot out what was left of the evening’s dying sun. Had they been fighting _all day_ already? He hadn’t even gotten a nap break.

"Knox, what should we do?" shouted one of the few remaining Dispatch officers beside him.

The blond was totally at a loss, and he finally gained a real sense of appreciation for what his mentors did in their leadership roles. He tried to combine what Grell would do with what William would do. It all really depended on Alan, now. The angels were closing ranks steadily on the Great Library and the Shinigami forces were down to a trickle. His decision was cinched when Eric Slingby appeared from the dust, half-dragging a protesting Grell Sutcliff.

"What’s going on?" demanded Ronald when the older blond reached him. "Is Undertaker dead?"

Eric coughed and shook his head. “He was alive…last we saw. There’s a seraph. These are all his angels…this is all his doing.”

Ronald blinked. “Wow, so much for them not getting involved. So was it the golden wing kind or what?”

"That’s an archangel, Ronnie," Grell said, his eyes worriedly scanning the area he’d just left. "This is a seraph."

"Okay, so what does it look like?" insisted Ronald.

"Scariest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life," answered Eric bluntly. He looked around with a frown. "Where’s Alan?"

Ronald grimaced. “Um, yeah…about that. I kind of sent him to the mortal realm to make contact with Sebastian Michaelis and try to convince him to negotiate with his buddies in hell to bring a demon army into our realm and help us drive these angels off.”

Eric stared at him, both brows going up. “What?”

"Bassy could be our only hope," Grell said with approval, "though I’m sure Will is going to have a conniption if he wakes up to find we won because a demon army helped us."

Eric looked down ambiguously, and then he shrugged. “Well, I guess beggars cannae be choosers. It’s like Undertaker said; it isn’t demons threatening our existence, right now. Maybe it’s time for tha’ grey shade of ours tae shine a little more. The angels certainly aren’t any better than demons.”

"Well, not _these_ angels, anyway,” sighed Ronald. He looked at his mentor and he bit his lip. “Grell, I’m sure Undertaker’s going to be okay—”

As if summoned by his words, the reaper in question came bounding down from somewhere above, stumbling as his feet hit the ground and trailing smoke. Grell caught him, and it looked for a moment as though Undertaker might collapse.

"Darling?" Grell said aloud, supporting him. Undertaker was gasping and his jacket was soaked through with blood on the right side, the edges of it singed.

"Go," Undertaker said, lifting his blood-matted head to look around at them all. "Retreat to the library. We’ve lost the perimeter. Now all we can do is seal the library and wait."

"Help could come," Ronald announced as Grell helped the injured ancient lurch toward the structure. "Alan went to the human side to ask for help from that demon Sutcliff Senpai used to have the hots for."

"Wise of you to use a past tense," muttered Undertaker with a bloody smirk at him. He coughed and nodded. "Good for you. How did you convince Mr. Stiffpants to go along with it?"

"Well, he was kind of high on meds," admitted the blond, scratching his head, "but I think the impending end of the world helped along his decision, too. They’ve already got him in the library with the other wounded."

"Which is where we’ll encounter the other Mr. Stiffpants," sighed Undertaker. "I don’t suppose we’ve been fortunate enough for Mr. Jacobs to have suffered some sort of injury that rendered him unconscious or mute, eh?"

Eric shook his head. “Sorry.”

Undertaker took it in stride. “Well, we can’t always be…lucky…” He started to collapse, and Grell caught him before he hit the ground.

 

* * *

-To be continued


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

Sebastian was a bloody mess…quite literally. He frowned with annoyance at the gore coating his attire, brushing a gloved hand against it and incidentally smearing it more. He heard his young master call out to him from the upper floors of the house, and he looked up to see him poking his head out the window of the Billiard room.

"Sebastian, stop playing around and get back inside," demanded Ciel. "We’ve got the first floor boarded up again."

The demon butler gave an elegant bow, hand over heart. “As you wish, my lord.”

He smirked at the remaining zombies trying to surround him, and he dissipated in a cloud of feathers and darkness. He re-appeared in the great hall of the manor, amongst the rubble caused by the tornado’s passing. Soma—impulsive thing that he was—attempted to hug him in greeting, and Sebastian politely but firmly kept him back at arm’s length.

"The blood is theirs, not mine," he assured the young prince as Agni gently urged him away. Ciel came down the grand staircase, and Sebastian smiled up at him, his elegant, pale features calm. "Well, young master, it seems we’ve secured your home for a while longer. What is your next command?"

Before Ciel could answer, a portal formed between himself and Sebastian. The demon was at his side in a flash, putting his tall, lean body between the portal and his master. A young man stepped out, looking faintly disoriented. He was small of build, with collar-length brown hair feathering over his brow. He held a long-handled, slender axe-like weapon in his hands, but he had it lowered in a non-threatening manner. He looked around at the humans, and his dual-iris gaze immediately latched onto Sebastian. He bowed to him and his small master.

"I apologize for my sudden, uninvited arrival," he said respectfully. "My name is Alan Humphries, Lord Phantomhive. You may remember me as one of the Shinigami that answered your summons when Legendary Death was in your home, some time ago."

Ciel stepped out from behind Sebastian and he nodded, warning the others with his expression not to attack. “Yes, I remember you. What are you doing in my home?”

Alan looked around at the candle-lit hall, before returning his attention to Ciel. “I’ve come on a diplomatic mission,” he explained, “on behalf of Dispatch…and Undertaker.”

Ciel frowned slightly. “Undertaker? Your organization was after him, just a short time ago. Are you saying he’s your ally now?”

Alan nodded solemnly, his attractive young countenance sincere. “He came to us, after some events unfolded on your plane that convinced us all that there are more important things at stake. Judging by the condition of your manor, you already know that all isn’t right in your world…or ours.”

Ciel shrugged elegantly, and he absently took Elizabeth’s hand as she stepped up beside him. “The end of the world is coming. You don’t need to tell us that.”

"But it can be averted," said the reaper. His strange, glittering eyes went to Sebastian again. "With help from the Underworld."

Sebastian smirked with amusement. “Please clarify what you are suggesting, reaper. I find your hints quite interesting.”

"As do I," Ciel remarked, arching a brow. "Mr. Humphries, are you suggesting that there may be a way to stop all of this?"

"With the help of your butler and his colleagues, yes," answered the reaper with a nod. There was no arrogance in his expression. He was completely open and serious, without any hint of disdain or distaste as he looked at Sebastian. "The Shinigami are outnumbered, Mr. Michaelis. The Great Library—the largest collection of cinematic records in our realm—could fall to enemy forces at any moment, and once that occurs, the angels will be in charge of determining which souls go where. I’m sure I don’t need to explain the implications of that."

"Wh-what are the implications?" Finnian asked, wide-eyed.

"It’s already been explained," Ciel answered before Sebastian could, his good eye narrowed. "Angels can’t be objective. The reapers are meant to be neutral ferrymen, judging souls without any bias."

Alan nodded. “Yes. What’s happening now will only get worse, until this whole world is destroyed, if we don’t put a stop to this.” He knelt humbly before them, laying his scythe at Sebastian’s feet like a knight at a king’s court. “Sebastian Michaelis, London Dispatch requests your aid in negotiations with your clan. We wish to put aside our differences to achieve a common goal and end this threat.”

"Interesting," murmured Sebastian. He had to admit that this young reaper was quite the charming, humble creature. "This threat won’t destroy Hell, though. What is our motivation to help your kind?"

Alan looked up. “You can play games if you want to, Mr. Michaelis, but I won’t participate. You and I both know that if the human world is destroyed, your folk will starve. Perhaps you’re used to that, but most of your brethren will eventually take out their hunger frustration on each other. I don’t believe for a moment that Hell is as chaotic as they say. You have your own hierarchies, don’t you? What would civil unrest in your realm be like, when there are no more human souls for your kind to consume?”

"Hmm, good incentive," approved Sebastian, and he offered a polite hand to the reaper to help him up. "Well, I’m told I’m quite the charmer, when I need to be. I could act as a liaison between your kind and my brethren, but there remains two issues."

Alan accepted the hand and he got back to his feet. “Such as?”

The butler looked at the small, dark-haired boy at his side. “I cannot offer you my services without my master’s permission, and in doing so, I would need to leave his side once more.”

Alan nodded in understanding. “And the second issue?”

"Passage to the Shinigami realm, of course." Sebastian’s sensitive, thin lips tugged into a crooked, alluring smile. "We demons can’t simply waltz into your plane."

"I have leave to give you passage," answered the reaper. His eyes focused on Ciel again. "As for the rest, all I can do is give your master my heartfelt plea. Earl Phantomhive, the Shinigami can’t hold back this force on our own. When I left to seek help, we were nearly in a state of retreat. I don’t know what matters to you in this world beyond vengeance, but please consider that young lady at your side. Her life will be snuffed out, and her soul won’t be given proper judgment after that. Even the smallest sins are considered grave to the angels that want to take control of the main library. Two of the smaller libraries had already fallen, according to reports before I left. Both the Budapest and Stockholm libraries are already in control of these angels. There are more of them than there are of us."

"I understand that," Ciel said thoughtfully, glancing at Sebastian. "What I don’t understand is how you intend to drive them back out again, even if you save the main library at the London branch."

"If we had the help of Sebastian’s kin, we could do so," assured Eric. "But your butler is the only demon that any of us can remotely trust."

"And I’m sure your supervisor was absolutely ecstatic to send you here to ask for my aid," commented Sebastian dryly. He sobered and he knelt before his young master, gently turning him to face him. "Sir, if I may; while I revel in the desperation of these Shinigami to seek out my aid, I must agree with Mr. Humphries: the reapers are too few in number. Neutral spirits are uncommon, and few are selected to be the caretakers of the dead. As much as our natures and purpose conflict with each other, we share a certain dependence on human souls."

Sebastian’s ruby gaze settled on Elizabeth, who stood with a worried and confused look on her pretty young face. “And there is also your betrothed to think of, as the reaper so elegantly said. Truthfully, Hell will be no better off than the residents of Earth, if this Armageddon commences.”

He bowed his head and placed a hand over his breast. “I will do as my master bids, however. The choice is yours.”

Ciel looked at Elizabeth; who incidentally looked like she had about a dozen questions for him. He looked back at Alan suspiciously. “Where is Undertaker? Why didn’t he come to ask this favor?”

The reaper compressed his lips. “Master Undertaker was injured in battle, when I left. So was Mr. Spears. I don’t know if either of them are still alive.”

Sebastian watched an interesting little flicker of emotion cross over his master’s face. Try though he might, Ciel couldn’t fully hide his fondness for Undertaker. The ancient reaper’s gift and his reasons for his attacks appeared to have endeared the boy even more to him. Ciel looked up at him, and the demon waited patiently for him to come to a decision.

"Ciel," Lizzy said, unsurprised by Sebastian’s nature by now but still confused about his bond with the young Earl, "what is going on?"

Ciel sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I can’t explain it all to you right now, Lizzy. I promise, I’ll…try to clarify everything when we’ve survived all of this.” He looked up at the tall, raven-haired man at his side. “We’ll hold out here on our own for a while without you, Sebastian. Go and do what you can to aid the reapers. Try to stop this, if you can.”

Sebastian bowed to him. “Yes, my lord.” He looked at the young reaper in their midst, and he smirked. “Well, Mr. Humphries, it seems we have some negotiations in Hell to make. Shall we?”

 

* * *

"Well, this is a fine mess we’re in now," grumbled Phillip Jacobs as he watched the heavy, vaulted doors of the library with his companions. "So much for preparations."

"Stuff it, Phil," muttered Undertaker, just conscious enough to hear his complaints.

The head administrator turned around to glare at his former associate and rival, his eyes practically glowing with anger. “Now is a fine time to make light of our situation, you bloody clown! How can you sit there smirking when—”

Grell jumped up from his seat beside Undertaker near the statue of him, and he got right up in Jacob’s face. “You can shut your trap right now, you arrogant fop. If it weren’t for Undertaker, this place would have already been overrun by now!”

"How _dare_ you!” fumed the older reaper indignantly.

Anderson interposed before Eric or anyone else could even move to try. “Everyone, calm down. This won’t help a thing and Undertaker is badly injured, like Mr. Spears. I think the time for arguing has passed. The very last thing we need at this point is to tear one another’s throats out.”

There was a hollow boom as something struck the sealed doors with concussive force, and the boxed in Shinigami all looked at one another, weapons held ready. Ronald heaved a sigh, looking down at his lover, then over at Undertaker. The silver reaper had passed out again, and his body was healing his injuries as quickly as it could, like William’s. It probably wouldn’t be fast enough, though.

"And here we are with our two best fighters down for the count." He looked up at Grell, seeking answers instinctively from his old mentor. "Senpai…"

Grell sighed, looking to the doors again. “Even a reaper of my fabulous standing can’t deny the truth: they’re going to get in here.” He looked over his shoulder at Ronald and the others, and he smiled in a predatory manner. “That doesn’t mean we have to make it easy for them, though. If this is going to be the end, we’ll take as many of them as we can with us.”

"There is another alternative," suggested Lawrence thoughtfully, puffing on his pipe.

Eric looked at him quizzically. “And that would be?”

"The catacombs beneath this building," he answered. "It would take them some time to even find the hidden entrance, and we could last down there for a while. It would buy us some time."

"No," stated Jacobs flatly, shaking his head. "It’s forbidden."

Ronald frowned. “Why? What’s down there?”

"It’s where the records of neutral souls are placed," explained Anderson—despite Jacobs’ warning look. "They keep them there until they are deemed fit for processing…as new reapers."

"Are you suggesting we raise them as new reapers ourselves?" Eric questioned, looking both intrigued and wary. Only the highest management knew what was involved in raising a worthy soul from the dead, to be reborn as a Shinigami.

"No, we haven’t the time nor the proper incantations to wake any of them," answered Lawrence, "but the entrance is the most highly guarded secret in our realm. Of everyone here, only myself, Mr. Jacobs, Mr. Spears and Undertaker know the exact location of the entrance."

"Is there an exit?" Grell wondered, "Or is it more like an oubliette? I’m not especially fond of the thought of trapping myself in some dank, dark hole with no escape…not that I would try to run myself, but…" His gaze went to Ronald and a brief flash of concern lit his eyes. As the one who had mentored the blond, he retained certain protective feelings for him…whether he desired them or not.

"Good news, then," advised Jacobs grimly, "If they break through, it won’t matter if there’s an exit."

He picked up his walking cane and pulled the handle, revealing that the shaft was actually a sheath for the hidden blade of his death scythe. He drew it in full as the barrage against the doors continued, and he stood rigidly with his weapon at ready. “I for one don’t intend to flee anywhere. This library is sacred; a hub of our society. I’ll perish myself before I allow it to be violated.”

Grell looked at the other reapers, then at Undertaker, Will and Ronald. He sighed. If not for the sake of existence, he could at least die for the sake of the only three beings he could honestly say he loved. “Fine,” he said, lifting his scythe to stand beside the senior manager. “I’ll stand with you. Ronnie, you and the medics take our wounded down to the catacombs. Mr. Anderson, will you show them the way?”

"Yes," agreed Lawrence, "and then I’ll return to fight at your sides."

Grell smirked. “Aren’t you a bit out of practice, Pops?”

"My scythe cuts as deeply as yours," assured the glassmaker. He summoned a golden sickle to demonstrate. "Any of you younglings are welcome to fight with us, but the rest should vacate to the catacombs and protect Mr. Spears and Undertaker until help arrives."

"How can you be so sure help _will_ arrive?” pointed out a female medic, green-gold eyes wide behind her round glasses. “The other branches aren’t fairing any better than we are, and they’d never make it to help us in time even if they could spare the agents.”

Anderson glanced at Ronald. “The aid I speak of won’t come from reapers. At this point, we can’t afford to be choosy. Now, those of you who are going, please come with me to the inner chambers.”

Ronald got back to his feet and brushed his pants off, adjusting his glasses before reaching for his mower. “I’m staying here with Sutcliff Senpai—”

"No, you aren’t," corrected Grell firmly. "You’re going down with the rest of them. Someone reliable has to be there to protect Will and Undertaker if they get through us."

"And those souls are truly the most important ones to look after," Anderson said, agreeing with Grell. "Their very neutrality could be the last thing that keeps the angels meddling from tearing apart this realm and earth. It’s a hidden chamber for a reason, young man."

Ronald deflated, his gaze shooting to William. “Okay, when you put it that way. Man, I could use a drink.”

"Later, Ronnie," smirked Grell. "Just go."

Ronald didn’t argue further, and he helped the others secure the stretchers for William, Undertaker and three other survivors who were badly injured, but not yet gone. They carried the wounded away with Anderson in the lead, while half of the remaining forces stayed behind with the others to defend the main entry. Fortunately, the windows were so heavily warded and reinforced that the angels could only batter at them futilely…but how long they would hold was in question as well.

Eric stepped up beside Grell and he gave him a nod. “I’m with you.”

The redhead grinned at him and nodded back. “Such a gentleman. Let’s hope your charming little partner pulls through for us with Sebby.”

"I think he will," said Eric with confidence.

"He’d better," mumbled Grell under his breath.

 

* * *

Alan opened his eyes again and he looked around as the feathers dissipated around him. “Well, this is…nice.”

Sebastian smirked sidelong at him. “This is merely a cavern. I thought it best that we not suddenly appear amongst a host of my kind, for your sake. Come, Mr. Humphries. The Court of Bones is only a short walk from here.”

"The…court of…" Alan followed him and his eyes widened upon stepping out into the red light, once they exited the small cavern. He’d somehow expected the entire realm to be in one giant cavern, with lakes of fire and tormented souls being tortured by little orange imps. Instead, he found himself looking over a landscape that wasn’t all that different from Earth and the Shinigami realm. There was grass, trees, hills, and even a little brook down below in the valley. The only real difference he could see was that the sky was crimson instead of blue, deepening to a dark blood color overhead, and there were two enormous moons on opposite sides of the horizon. There were stars in the darker parts of the skies, twinkling in colors of red and purple.

"Grell would like it here," Alan decided aloud, his mouth slack with awe. "This…wasn’t what I imagined at all."

"You look at too many Renaissance paintings," said the demon calmly. "Though we _do_ have lakes of fire here, further south. Come…time passes more slowly here than in the mortal realm. We can’t linger.”

Alan nodded in understanding. “It’s the same in our realm.” He trod the winding path down from the cave systems with his elegant companion, and he saw a formidable, black fortress up ahead, rising up to the sky like skeletal fingers reaching for the heavens. It was castle shaped in general, but it also reminded him of the twisting branches of a tree in winter. It caused a rare shiver of foreboding to race up his spine and he could sense the powerful demonic aura radiating from it, even at this distance.

"I take it that’s our destination?" he asked, pointing.

Michaelis nodded. “Yes. That’s the Court of Bones. We’ll seek audience with the Duke there and plead our case to him.” He looked at the reaper sidelong, his crimson eyes unreadable. “I should warn you that this demon may ask a price, if he agrees to send his forces to your aid. I hope Dispatch is prepared to pay it.”

"I wouldn’t be here now, if Dispatch wasn’t prepared to pay whatever price is asked of us."

Sebastian looked him in the eye. “Even if that price is your life?”

"Even if it’s my life," answered the young reaper with a stoic nod. He smirked a little. "It’s fortunate for me that Shinigami souls aren’t edible to your kind, at least."

Sebastian smirked back. “Count your blessings, Mr. Humphries.”

They lapsed into silence as they traversed the winding path and arrived at the entry to the courtyard of the black fortress. There were demons socializing outside, and they stopped and stared as Alan took his first step onto the dark slate path. A bare-breasted female with expansive leathery wings and a tail raised an elegant, fiery brow at the reaper as he passed by with Sebastian.

"Doesn’t he look tasty," she observed with a feral grin, her large red eyes aglow and her slit pupils widening. She took a step toward the pair, her vivid, straight red hair swaying at her hips with her motions. Seeing that he was Shinigami, she sighed. "How disappointing."

"He’s here on a diplomatic purpose, Esmerelda," Sebastian said calmly to the demonic woman, "One that the court can’t afford to ignore."

She shrugged, and she smiled at Alan when he looked away with a blush. “Such a shy thing, for one of his kind. Are you virginal, handsome reaper?”

Alan kept his gaze facing straight ahead, retaining his dignity as best he could—though he was growing quite uncomfortable with the growing amount of attention he was getting from the demons. “I’m afraid I don’t have the time to discuss such personal matters, Miss. Please excuse us.”

She seemed more amused than anything as he continued walking, and Sebastian leaned closer to murmur a compliment to him. “Well played, death god. Well played.”

Alan didn’t respond to his approval. He kept his eyes focused ahead and he fought the urge to summon his death scythe as they passed through the looming black archway and into the building.

 

* * *

Undertaker awoke slowly, his pale, thin brows furrowing as his mind struggled to recall where he was and what he was doing. He struggled to open his eyes, finding them reluctant to obey him. He reminded his eyelids who was in charge, and he forced them open. He wasn’t terribly surprised to find his vision partially veiled by the brush of silver bangs that had grown long so quickly. He reached up and pushed them aside, blinking as he tried to bring his surroundings into focus. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and it took him a while to recognize his surroundings.

"Catacombs," he said softly, surprised. "What in Styx am I doing here?"

He heard voices murmuring, and he could also hear the muffled noise of battle from somewhere up above. He groaned, and he struggled into a sitting position. One of the nearby reapers spotted the movement, and he rushed to his side.

"Undertaker Senpai," said the blond reaper, his face coming into focus as he knelt beside him. "Thank Death you’re waking up. You okay?"

Undertaker peered at him, recognizing him as Ronald Knox. He smiled brightly at him, rather fond of the young man despite the way he’d threatened him on the ship. “Ah, Ronnie. Tell me what’s happening. I’m afraid I’m out of the loop.”

"Well, you and Spears Senpai were hurt really bad and they told us to bring you down here to the catacombs with the rest of the injured," obliged the blond, and then he told him the rest. Undertaker grew even paler—if possible—with the news that his lover was up there fighting without him. He struggled to his feet at the same moment as William, and before he could issue any sort of battle declaration, the Dispatch supervisor spoke up.

"Where are my glasses?"

Ronald’s face lit up at the sight of William standing on his own two feet, and he didn’t immediately respond.

"I asked a question," William stated simply, while the other reapers stared at him. Sallow of cheek and pale of skin, he nonetheless cut a sharp, formidable figure in the dank light of the catacombs as he stood straight and tall.

"Right here," Ronald said, taking said glasses from a case nearby to hand them to him. "Safe and sound."

William put them on with a sigh of relief that wasn’t lost on his companions. He brushed his uniform off with difficulty, looking around with narrowed eyes and pale, compressed lips. “How many of us are left?”

"Not many," Ronald reported with a grimace. "Most are upstairs fighting off the angels that have broken through to the Great Library."

William nodded and manifested his scythe, adjusting his glasses with them. He turned to look at Undertaker, who had likewise called forth his death scythe. He gave the elder a dry smirk. “Think what you will of me sir, but I for one don’t intend to stay down here while others do the fighting.”

Undertaker nodded, gaining more respect for him. “Nor should you.” He looked around at the others, grinned, and took off running for the exit stairs, stumbling a little from his healing injuries, but enthusiastic, nonetheless. “Race you upside!”

William sighed. “Oh, honestly.”

Ronald reached out to rest a tentative hand on the taller reaper’s shoulder. “Are you up for this?”

"I’m not at my best," confessed the brunet, "but then, neither is Master Undertaker. We can’t allow that little detail to make us lax, however."

He grimaced in pain, but he didn’t buckle. The severity of his wounds had healed enough during his rest to allow him to rejoin the fight. He looked at Ronald and he smirked. “Are you ready, Ronald Knox?”

The blond grinned and he grabbed his scythe, making the “death” symbol with one hand. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

* * *

Demons, he learned, came in all shapes and sizes in their true forms. Some were truly frightening to behold, with extra limbs, more than one face or eyes where they shouldn’t be; like the one watching him through the eyeballs on the palms of his hands. Others were quite beautiful, like the female that had approached him outside, and Sebastian Michaelis himself. The raven demon had shed his mortal appearance and was now walking beside him with a pair of dark, ram-like horns curving from his head and an impressive set of raven wings sprouting from his back. Alan didn’t think he could call Sebastian’s demonic form monstrous, though the claws on the tips of his fingers and the fangs visible when he smiled certainly looked like they could shred a person easily. Some of the others, though…the reaper couldn’t suppress a slight shudder as they closed in around him and his guide.

They traversed the great hall quietly, while the demonic court looked on with curiosity and more than a little malice. The floors, ceilings and support columns all appeared to be made of obsidian, with red veins running through it. Chandeliers floated eerily above them, with nothing supporting them. The wicks of the candles burned red and the wax dripped like blood to the floor, evaporating shortly after striking it. Somewhere within the reception hall, a fiddle was playing a mad trill and a group of naked succubae danced to it, the gyrations of their voluptuous bodies seductive. Alan deduced that the woman who had approached him outside was one of their kind.

A tentacle-like appendage reached out from the crowd to caress his shoulder and Alan shrugged it off, casting a warning glare at its owner. Something spiny prodded him from another demon and he nearly yelped, but he held back the exclamation and took it all as stoically as he could. They were mocking him…testing him…trying to get a reaction from him that could be interpreted as threatening. If he made an aggressive move, he instinctively knew that the demons would be upon him in seconds, and they would tear his body apart, and Sebastian wouldn’t be able to stop them.

"The price of being a diplomat," remarked Michaelis with a sidelong smirk at him, his crimson, slit-pupiled gaze amused. "I assume there’s no need to tell you not to react with violence."

"Already understood," gasped Alan as a tall male with horns and wings like Sebastian’s came up behind him and embraced him outright.

"He smells interesting," murmured the other raven demon, his long black hair tickling the reaper’s skin as it brushed against his face. "What is a reaper doing in these halls, brother?"

"He’s here to seek audience with the Duke," answered Sebastian calmly, "on a matter that concerns us all. It wouldn’t be wise to delay him."

"Hmm."

Alan turned to look at the handsome, angular face hovering close to his. “Please unhand me. I’m not here to fight _or_ to play.”

The demon chuckled darkly and obliged, his great, sweeping wings flexing and relaxing. “He’s a spitfire, ‘Sebastian’. That _is_ the name you go by now, is it not?”

Sebastian inclined his head and smirked. “It is. My master chose it for me. Now, if you’ll excuse us…” he put one arm around Alan to cordially help him right himself as he stumbled, and the other raven allowed them to go.

"Randy lot, aren’t they?" whispered Alan under his breath.

Sebastian chuckled. “We like our pleasures, Mr. Humphries. Take it as a compliment that some are more interested in mating with you than attempting to devour or kill you.”

"If you wish to sample the pleasures only a demon can give you," called out the other raven with a smirk and a wink, "come and see me when your business is complete. I am known as Mordecai."

Alan flushed, embarrassed by the lewd suggestion and the chuckles of the nearby demons. He faced the demon that had propositioned him and he gave him a respectful bow. “Thank you, but I must regrettably decline. I have a ‘mate’ of my own.”

Mordecai shrugged, absently toying with one of the little braids woven into his waist-length, straight black hair. “Should you change your mind, all you need do is call for me, and I’ll come.” He smirked. “And then perhaps I’ll make _you_ —”

"You flatter me," interrupted the reaper quickly, before he could finish the suggestive sentence. He knew there were two bright spots of color on his cheeks. "I’ll…remember your offer."

"Well, that isn’t exactly a ‘no’," said the demon with a wink, running his black-clawed hands over his lean, leather-clad body. He was built more powerfully than Sebastian, but he wasn’t bulging with muscles. His form was quite pleasing to the eye. "I’ll be waiting, little reaper."

Alan turned back around, mortified that for a brief moment, he entertained thoughts of taking the attractive demon up on his offer if for some reason he and Eric ever broke up. He pictured his handsome lover and partner in his head, blotting out unfaithful thoughts of fornicating with a demon. He had never looked at anyone else that way, since Alan. It felt like he’d just cheated on him.

"We’re also masters of flirtation," Sebastian murmured with a low chuckle, as if he could see the guilt plain on his face. "Think nothing of any attraction you may harbor for my clan brother. Mordecai has a way of making mortals lose their heads…and some demons, too. I imagine Shinigami aren’t immune to his charms, either."

"Can we just keep moving?" pressed Alan, uncomfortable that the butler had picked up on his distress and guessed the cause. He kept Eric’s beloved face fixated firmly in his mind, hoping against hope that he was still alive and well. "My brethren are depending on me, and time is of the essence."

"Of course," agreed Sebastian in an amused tone.

His amusement faded when the crowd parted for another demon, and he stopped as the raven-haired male approached. The creature was very handsome, like Sebastian himself and Mordecai, but he clearly wasn’t from the same clan as they were. His hair was as dark as the butler’s and roughly the same length, but it was styled in a cowlick, parted to the left. His black horns were upswept and small, parting the silky locks of his hair to curve to sharp little points. A black, forked tail swished lazily behind him, and his wings looked like they were constructed of black, skeletal limbs with dark webbing stretching between them—like spider’s webs. Like Sebastian, he wore an ensemble that appeared to be made of form-fitting dark leather.

The other demon approached and he stopped before them, his glowing, crimson gaze briefly flashing over the reaper before settling on Sebastian. Alan couldn’t be sure, but he thought he sensed some tension between them.

"Sebastian Michaelis," greeted the demon with a curt nod.

"Good afternoon, Claude," answered the butler with a nod of his own. "Forgive my abruptness, but I’m in a hurry. I really don’t have time for banter with you."

"Is this a prisoner?" said the one named Claude with a graceful gesture at Alan.

"No, he is on a diplomatic assignment," explained Sebastian. "Will you please inform the Duke that we seek his audience?"

"You aren’t going to introduce us?" Claude smirked at the reaper.

Sebastian seemed to gather his patience like a cloak about him. “Alan Humphries, meet Claude Faustus. He is our Duke’s steward. Steward Faustus, this is Officer Humphries of the Shinigami Dispatch.” He narrowed his eyes at the slightly taller demon. “Are you satisfied with my introduction, Steward?”

Claude’s handsome, pale features were amused and slightly predatory on the butler. “It will do. Wait here, while I inform my lord of your coming. Don’t rush off again, Michaelis.”

Alan looked at Sebastian, quietly wondering what that meant and what was between him and the steward. The butler was staring at Claude’s retreating form with annoyance, and possibly lust. The reaper lifted an eyebrow with interest, but he was too polite to inquire into Sebastian’s personal business. Perhaps they were simply rivals and he was mistaking the heat in his gaze.

 

* * *

Grell was so startled to see William and Undertaker join the ranks that he nearly got beheaded. His lover leaped across the distance and intervened before the angel’s sword could strike, blocking it with his death scythe.

"Lovely to see you again too, my dear," grunted Undertaker, "but I prefer your pretty head on your shoulders, where it belongs. Be more careful, would you?"

"You…you’re," sputtered Grell, thrilled beyond measure to see him not only up, but fighting again. He wanted to embrace him, but now definitely wasn’t the time for it. He set his chainsaw roaring to life and he cut down the angel that Undertaker was struggling with. "You should be resting," he scolded the taller reaper as the enemy hit the ground.

"I was," Undertaker assured him simply, "and my injuries have healed enough for me to rejoin the fight now. Did you think I would leave my darling rose to face this without me?" He grinned at Grell and he clucked his tongue.

Relieved beyond measure to see that there was still some fight left in his lover, the redhead grabbed Undertaker by the lapels of his coat and he planted a quick, wet kiss on his lips. “Then lets bathe this library red with the blood of these miscreants…together.”

 

* * *

The Duke of the Court of Bones truly looked like a classical demon found in popular Renaissance art, or described in Dante’s inferno. He sat upon a throne of skulls, and his skin was deep red. He was huge—Alan estimated him to be about eight feet tall or more—and he had cloven hooves instead of feet. The horns sprouting from his head resembled twisted antlers, rising up from his blood red, multi-braided hair in a black tangle. He had a mustache and a beard that was braided into two rows, decorated with beads. His eyes were long in shape, the typical ruby color, and coldly intelligent. He wore dark, gauzy robes over his powerful body, and he tilted his head curiously as he looked at Alan and Sebastian.

"Here is the reaper and his escort, my lord," announced Claude with a graceful bow to the waist.

"So I see," answered the Duke in a voice that sounded like it came from the depths of the earth. It made Alan’s ears ring to hear it. "Come forward, reaper. Tell me this news you wish to impart to me."

With one glance at Sebastian, the Dispatch agent dutifully approached the throne. Claude stepped aside and stood silently, his gaze flicking between Alan and Sebastian. The young reaper surprised everyone by sinking to one knee and bowing his head in homage. “I’m here on behalf of Shinigami Dispatch, your grace. I am sure you know about the threat to the well of souls, brought about by the angels that wish to take control of the cinematic libraries.”

"I am," answered the demon with a nod. "Continue."

Alan looked up at him, but he remained kneeling respectfully. “Then you know that even though your realm isn’t immediately threatened by this encroachment, it could put an end to Earth, as well as our realm. If that happens, you and your kind will starve.”

The Duke shrugged his great shoulders, his chiseled features unconcerned. “Demons have starved before and survived. Just look at Mr. Michaelis; he hasn’t supped on a mortal soul since he contracted that boy, and he is still nearly in top form.”

"Yes, but starvation makes one cranky," observed Alan shrewdly, "and it will be a very long time before a new mortal realm is created, should this one fall…if a new one ever _is_ created at all. How will you and the other rulers of Hell manage your population, when the frustration caused by a lack of nourishment renders most of them mad? I’m sure that your grace enjoys dining as well…” he trailed off and left it at that.

The antlered demon grinned at him, displaying teeth that reminded Alan of Grell’s. “You present your argument with grace and cunning, reaper. I do so enjoy the sight of one of your kind kneeling at my hooves, as well.”

He stood up, and his robes billowed around him as he began to pace. His hooves clopped over the hard stone floor as he tapped a deadly black claw against his fangs in thought. “I presume your clan wishes the aid of the demons in my kingdom.”

Alan nodded. “Yes.”

"And what does your Dispatch offer in return?" questioned the Duke.

Alan didn’t falter. “Whatever price you wish…though with all due respect, I presume continuing to eat should be reward enough.”

The demonic noble chuckled. “One would think.” His eyes settled on Alan and bored into him. “Would you be willing to sacrifice your life, here and now?”

Alan closed his eyes and thought of Eric. “If necessary.”

"Hmm, brave. My subjects have been known to be so self-sacrificing, but I suspect their reasons aren’t the same as yours."

Alan opened his eyes again and looked up at the Duke hopefully. “Then, do we have an agreement?”

The Duke looked at Claude, Sebastian and the other servants in the chamber. “Leave us. I will discuss this matter with our guest.”

They cleared out quickly after bowing to him, leaving Alan alone with the antlered demon.

 

* * *

Sebastian hardly took three steps out of the chamber, before he was caught around the arm and dragged into an alcove. Claude’s angular, attractive features were mere inches away as the spider demon pushed him up against the wall.

"I never finished with you," he murmured in a husky tone, his claws digging into the butler’s shoulder.

Sebastian smirked. “My time was up. You know as well as I do that a Faustian command cannot be ignored.”

"I do," agreed Claude, "but to leave so abruptly was rude, to say the least."

"I never wanted this," Sebastian pointed out calmly, though he was already reacting to the other demon’s intimate, forceful hold on him.

"Neither did I," said Claude in a whisper, and he trailed one clawed hand over the raven demon’s torso in a slow, wicked caress, his claws skimming the dark garments he wore. "I’ve since learned to accept the arrangement. Though your first duty may be to your little human master, your second lies with me."

Sebastian’s breath caught slightly as Claude’s hand drifted lower, settling over his groin to cup it. “Business before pleasure,” he reminded with a smirk. “And whatever mating urges you feel will have to wait, I’m afraid. We _do_ have an impending apocalypse to concern us.”

Claude gave his package a possessive squeeze, before he leaned in to murmur hotly into Sebastian’s ear. “You have yet to satisfy those mating urges, Michaelis.” He took the butler’s earlobe between his teeth, biting down just enough to sting, before licking it. “The match has been made. When this is finished, I expect you to make time for me.”

"If my young master allows it," agreed Sebastian with a little shiver of lust. "I still dislike you greatly, however."

The smirk returned to Claude’s lips. “Because I won you?”

"You did not ‘win me’," corrected the raven demon with annoyance.

"I fought a battle to the death for our Duke’s amusement and he granted my request to take you as my mate," recapped the spider demon calmly. "I won you. You’re mine."

"Think what you like," said Sebastian, suddenly shoving him away. He brushed his clawed hands over his clothing impulsively, though it was hardly mussed from the exchange. "I promise, I’ll make my mark on you when our consummation finally occurs. You won the right to mate with me, not to be my master."

"I can hardly wait for you to make your mark upon me," promised Claude with a smirk.

Sebastian began to retort to that, more irritated than he cared to admit, but then the doors to the Duke’s chambers opened and Alan Humphries walked out. Looking pale but dignified, he looked around and he nodded to Sebastian as the raven demon walked over to him.

"It’s done. He has agreed to send his subjects to the Shinigami realm with me. Mr. Faustus, the Duke awaits you in his chamber with instructions."

Claude shot one last look at Sebastian that promised their conversation wasn’t over, and he left the two of them. Sebastian narrowed his eyes at his rival—now his mate through no choice of his own—and then he caught Alan as the reaper’s knees started to buckle. He was admittedly puzzled; Mr. Humphries seemed quite willing and unafraid to give up his life when asked before, but now he looked like a doomed man sick with the knowledge of his impending death.

"Lean against me, Agent Humphries," he offered cordially, not asking him for details. Chances were he made a deal with the Duke that he didn’t find particularly to his liking. Perhaps he was contracted to return to Hell and give his life when it was over, since the demonic forces couldn’t make it into the Shinigami realm without his help. There were worse fates than death, however, and Alan certainly looked like he’d just agreed to at least one of them.

 

* * *

-To be continued   


	18. Chapter 18

* * *

Grell was beginning to think that it was hopeless. The angels that had come through to fight their brethren were even smaller in numbers than the reapers trying to protect the library—which suggested that Barachiel’s forces must have been staggering, before they broke through to the Shinigami realm. There was no telling how many angels had fallen in the battle that took place in the higher realms before they came here. Barachiel joined the fight once his generals broke through the doors, and reapers fell before his fury left and right.

"Mustn’t let them into the catacombs, love," Undertaker grunted at his back as they fought off a group of angels together. 

"No need to remind me, dear," responded Grell. "Bloody hell! They just keep…coming! Why can’t we target their commander?"

"Because he’ll fry us on the spot," answered Undertaker, cutting down another angel. "He’s mostly observing now…we’ll have our chance to join the fight against him soon enough. We’re the last defense."

Glancing around, Grell couldn’t dispute that claim. “U-Undie,” he uttered, his courage faltering. He didn’t care so much if he died, but he didn’t want to be parted from his lover.

Undertaker heard the note of frightened resignation in his voice, and he turned to look into his eyes. “This isn’t our end, Grell. Even if we fall, you and I will always be—”

His dramatic comment was interrupted by the sound of a horn, blowing in the distance. The ancient nearly rolled his eyes in annoyance, but as soon as he recognized the timbre, he grinned.

"Oh my," he said. "I believe that’s Gabriel’s horn. If he’s joined the fray, I’m sure he’ll be on our side."

"Gabriel?" repeated Grell as the angels and reapers surrounding them paused to listen. "The archangel?"

"Where?" shouted Ronald, stepping on an injured angel’s head carelessly in his haste to get to the entryway and have a look. He stopped in his tracks, blinking. He turned around to face his companions with a strange look on his young face. "Uh, Undertaker Senpai?"

Just as curious as his lover, Grell scrambled up beside Undertaker when the elder went to look outside. When he saw the origin of the noise, he gasped and looked at his companions speechlessly.

"Hmph, I was wrong about the origin of the horn," said Undertaker thoughtfully, scratching his chin, "but this will do nicely."

William saw them gawking and he immediately limped over to chastise them. “Need I remind you all that we are defending…oh, damn.”

Standing in a line as far as the eye could see was an army of demons, with Sebastian Michaelis standing at the head with an unfamiliar spider demon, and none other than Alan Humphries.

Eric had also noticed the lapse and when he went to check, his mouth formed Alan’s name.

"He did it," Ron said breathlessly, "He _did_ it! He brought them!”

"Yes, wonderful," sighed William.

"It _is_ wonderful,” insisted Undertaker with a grin. “This gives us a chance, Spears. Don’t make that face; it could get stuck that way.”

"Well, I’m sure that you are willing to—"

William’s complaints were lost when the other reapers began to cheer, too relieved to see reinforcements to give a damn about their nature. Sebastian Michaelis had a sensual, confident smile on his face, and he was obviously quite pleased with the prospect of killing some angels. His companion made a gesture of command, and the horde of demons advanced on the library. The angels’ attention was drawn away from the Shinigami as Barachiel commanded them to fall in line to defend against the new threat.

 

* * *

While his butler fought to save existence, Ciel fought to save his home. The zombie population continued to rise as unfortunate mortals fell victim to their attacks, and the undead creatures continued to advance upon Phantomhive manor, drawn to the aura of the living. There was no telling how many survivors were left in London or the nearby, neighboring communities. The Phantomhive household were holding their own, now that the house was boarded up again, but one more incident like the tornado could again create a breach in the defenses to let the monsters in.

Ciel instructed his companions to save bullets whenever possible, only shooting down the zombies whenever they got too close to breaking in. They began to rely on cruder methods that had proven effective in times long past, when structures were laid to siege. Agni and Soma heated oil in cauldrons found in the kitchen; which they then carried up to the roof for Mey-Rin and Snake to dump on the attackers below. Agni then shot flaming arrows down to light them on fire, and the stench of burning, rotting flesh permeated the air to the point where everyone was forced to wear cloth masks when stepping out into the open air.

Finny and Baldroy guarded the damaged areas of the house, while Ciel, Elizabeth and Paula checked all the boarding to be sure nothing was breaking through. The young Earl wondered how long they could last, without Sebastian there. He’d assured his butler that they could hold their own, but the stubborn creatures might break in eventually, if they ran out of supplies to hold them off. They certainly couldn’t take out the whole zombie population with what they had.

They slept in shifts, and when it was time for Mey-Rin and Snake to be relieved, she shyly invited him to join her in her bedroom, waiting until they were in the hall of the servants’ quarters to whisper her invitation.

"I know I’m a lecherous maid for asking," she said nervously, taking his hand to keep him from going on to his own quarters, "but…would you hold me, Snake? I…don’t think I can sleep alone."

He blushed furiously and looked around, before responding—this time without the help of the serpent coiled around his throat. “C-Can Emily come too?”

Mey-Rin looked at the animal, and she nodded. She didn’t much care for snakes, but she’d come to tolerate his and she liked him too much to say no. “Yes, she can come too.” She opened the door and with a blush staining her own cheeks, she guided him inside with her.

Baldroy passed by the hallway as they went in and he watched them disappear into the maid’s room. “Well, at least _someone’s_ getting lucky,” he muttered—earning himself an uncommon glare from his younger companion.

"Is that all you can think about?" Finnian complained. "We’re in the middle of the Apocalypse! I’m sure they aren’t… _doing_ anything in there.”

The cook shrugged and smirked at him. “And that’s why opportunities should be grabbed while they can, kid. We don’t know what’s going to happen. Sebastian may not be able to stop this, you know.”

Finny sighed and looked down. “Don’t remind me.”

Baldroy put a comforting arm around him. “Let’s not think about it, then. We’ll just keep ourselves busy and make sure none of those bastards outside break in.”

The blond tried to perk up. “Right!”

Together, they resumed their duties while Mey-Rin and Snake held each other and tried to get some rest.

 

* * *

It was brutal. Not that the battle hadn’t _already_ been brutal before the demonic forces showed up, but now there were two groups of beings on the field that absolutely despised one another, and it showed. Whatever disdain the angels held for reapers was nothing compared to their feelings on demons, and the demons in kind made the deaths of their enemies as violent and gory as possible. Grell remarked on this fact with a look of disgust as he got hit in the face by the entrails of one unfortunate angel that got eviscerated by a hoofed demon. He was grateful that their intervention had successfully driven the angels back out of the library and kept their commander busy, but he couldn’t abide having organs randomly strike him.

"Aaah! Could you try not to fling their innards around like that?" hollered the redhead, but his method of cutting them in half with his chainsaw were hardly cleaner.

The demon in question only growled and charged at another angel. Grell glanced up as a shadow fell over him and he blinked at the sight of Sebastian flying overhead. So, those gorgeous black wings weren’t just for show. He was so distracted by his grace and beauty as the butler collided with an opponent and began to fight her in the air that he didn’t see the danger to him. He felt it soon enough, however. There was a white-hot flash of agony down his back as an angel’s flaming sword sliced into it while his back was turned. Grell tried to gasp, but his lungs wouldn’t work and all that came out was a grunt. Smoke curled from his lips as he started to fall, and he vaguely heard Eric yell his name.

"Under…taker," choked the redhead, feeling his strength drain from him rapidly as his fellow Dispatch agent fought off his attacker to keep him off of him.

 

* * *

 

Undertaker couldn’t hear his name being said so weakly by his lover, but he did hear Eric’s shout and he turned. Somehow, he and Grell had gotten separated in the chaos and the ancient’s eyes widened when he saw the blurred figure of his lover collapsed on the ground, several feet away. Slingby was doing his best to protect him, but the blond man was getting outnumbered fast. Sensing an easy kill, some of the angels had targeted the wounded redhead. Alan soon joined his partner in defending their injured coworker, which bought Undertaker some time to get to them.

The mortician wasted no time. He called out to Sebastian overhead; who had just finished off another angel. “Butler, be a dear and cover me, won’t you? I’ve got to get to Grell.”

Sebastian looked over to where Undertaker pointed, and for a moment, his face bore an expression that said he’d be just as happy to leave the bothersome redhead to his fate. He looked down at Undertaker and he nodded with grudging consent. “Of course, Master Undertaker.”

The reaper didn’t waste a single moment. He bounded toward his fallen lover, hopping over bodies with nimble grace while his flying companion followed in his wake. He heard a whistling sound as an angel tried to intercept him, and he grinned as the creature was peppered with silverware. The angel gave a surprised shout of pain, but his concerns over the dining cutlery were driven to the background when Sebastian’s stiletto-heeled boot connected with his face, cutting a gouge in it as the heel dug in.

"Thanks, chap," said the ancient as he swerved past the obstacle and kept going. He heard a rending sound, followed by an agonized scream that left little doubt in his mind Sebastian had just clawed into the angel’s flesh.

He reached Grell’s side a moment later, giving Eric and Alan a grateful nod as he knelt before his lover to assess the damage. “Grell,” he said, forced to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of battle. He was afraid to roll him over onto his wound, so he carefully eased his upper body into his lap and left him facing downwards. “Grell, love…don’t go. If you die, this is all for naught, on my part.”

The redhead groaned, and his eyes fluttered open, and he turned his head and struggled to look up at the ancient. He reached up weakly with one trembling hand, a tear leaking from the corner of his eye. “U-Undy,” he sighed, blood trickling from his mouth.

Undertaker stroked his crimson hair, his throat tightening. “I’m here, darling rose. Be strong. Don’t go.”

"I’m not…" Grell coughed up more blood, "…going anywhere. Takes more…than this to…finish me!"

Undertaker’s vision blurred and he nodded. “That’s right. Stay. Hold on, my dear. I’ll help our friends finish this, and then you and I can enjoy our lives together at last. Just promise you won’t leave me again.”

"Again?" Grell frowned in disorientation. "When did I leave you…oh." Even in his injured state, he seemed to recall that he and Undertaker were lovers before he ever became a reaper.

He offered the older man a sickly grin. “I will never leave my grim prince,” he promised. “I…just need to rest. So…tired.”

"No," said the ancient, ignoring the sounds of battle all around them. "Don’t go to sleep, love. Stay alert for me."

He looked around and shouted for the medics, terrified that he might be losing Grell. Two of them rushed over to him with a stretcher, and they carefully loaded the redhead onto it, stomach down so as not to jostle the injury in his back too much. Undertaker stayed by his side and when Ronald saw them passing through the battlefield, he broke away from the fighting to rush over to Grell.

"Senpai," he called as he fell into step with Undertaker and the medics. He looked for his boss, spotting him fighting off a group of angels that were trying to gain access to the library again. "Will! Grell’s been hurt bad!"

William glanced at the entourage as they started to pass his group. He compressed his lips and nodded grimly, before breaking away himself to join the protective circle around Sutcliff. “Take him down to the catacombs with the other injured,” he instructed.

He instinctively cringed when Barachiel loosed more lightning on the ground troops, eliminating demons and reapers alike. He looked at Undertaker. “We need to take care of that seraphim. He is obliterating our forces too quickly, even with the reinforcements.”

Torn, the ancient looked down at his lover, whose hand held fast to his. “But…Grell. I can’t…”

"We need you in the field, sir," insisted William. "If we’re to capture or kill Barachiel, it’s going to take our strongest fighters. Perhaps once he’s eliminated, the others will lose morale and fall back."

Undertaker looked at him. “If it were your Ronnie lying there like that, would you be so quick to leave his side?”

William’s eyes widened and he flushed, while Ronald’s jaw dropped. “Oooh, that’s interesting,” blurted the blond reaper.

William recovered with obvious difficulty, loosening his tie and clearing his throat. The medics were too busy carrying and tending Grell to pay attention to the exchange, and everyone else was embroiled in combat. “I would…be loathe to leave his side,” admitted the brunet reaper with a glance at Ronald. “But I am sure he would understand, given the circumstances.”

Ronald shrugged. “Yeah, that’s fair.” He looked at the ancient. “Undertaker, I know that Grell would want you out here fighting. When you got hurt, Grell was ready to go back out and fight for your sake, and same goes for me with Will. He’s not gonna like it if you stay down there with him while everyone else fights to save the world.”

Undertaker smirked, and he looked down at Grell again as they passed through the doors into the library. The team of reapers guarding the entryway shut them behind them. “You make a potent argument, lad.”

He sighed and he asked the medics to stop for a moment. When they did, he bent over Grell and he murmured into his ear, stroking his bright, tangled hair. “They’re taking you down below now, love. They’ll keep you safe and patch you up, while I’m gone. I promise I’ll return to you, one way or the other. Just wait for me.” He kissed him on the head, shutting his eyes briefly when he got a little nod of agreement from him. Straightening back up, the ancient took a steadying breath and nodded at the medics. “Go on, then. Do everything you can for him, and keep him safe.”

He watched them take him to the corridor that would lead into the room with the hidden passage, and called up his death scythe again, looking at William and Ronald. “Let’s finish this, gents.”

They went back outside to see Barachiel hovering over the steps of the library, with both demon and reaper hosts pressing hard to take him down, while an outer ring of defenders did their best to keep the other angels at bay. Undertaker squinted and assessed the situation, before nodding and turning to Will and Ron.

"Give me a boost, lads."

The two younger reapers looked at each other, and Ronald shrugged. “If the old man wants to be tossed, I’m up for it.”

William nodded. “Indeed.”

 

* * *

"Your struggles are in vain," announced Barachiel as he dispatched another demon. "The light shall prevail!"

Someone tapped the seraph on the shoulder, just as his rear-facing visage spotted a blur of black and silver shooting up behind him. The angelic monarch rotated his faces to see better, but at first, all he saw was empty air. Then a flapping of black garments and scarred, grinning face dropped down from above him. He couldn’t twist his body in time to deflect it as Undertaker’s moaning scythe flashed in the darkening light on his way back down, nearly sheering one of his wings off and slicing into his back.

"One good turn deserves another!" shouted the falling reaper as Barachiel lost control and began to spin out of the sky.

It wasn’t a mortal injury, but it was severe…and he had no time to reconstruct the flesh and close the wounds, with so many enemies surrounding him. His other five wings worked to keep him aloft, but as it was a primary wing, all he could do was slow his descent. “To me!” roared the seraph, loosing his lightning on the forces below him to scatter them before he hit the ground. His left middle wing twitched uselessly and dragged behind him, the many eyes lining it rolling around and blinking in confusion. He turned his body to face the one responsible for the grievous injuries, his blood sizzling as it struck the ground.

"It would have to be you," said the seraph with grudging respect as the ancient reaper touched down lightly. "I saw the mad red one fall, and I thought you would surely remain by his side."

Undertaker shrugged, unshaken by the barb. “He’s in good hands. I’d rather take down the ones responsible for his injuries. How’s the wing feeling, old chap?”

"Ever the cocky one, aren’t you?" The seraph ignored the dragging, feathered limb. He spread the remaining functioning wings and Undertaker barely avoided the webs of lightning that forked out from them and his eyes.

"Keep them busy!" shouted Jacobs as the nearby lesser angels attempted to come to their leader’s aid. "Spears, press the attack with Undertaker!"

William didn’t need to be told twice, and Ronald parted ways with him to join Eric, Alan and the remaining Shinigami to fight off the opposition. Claude tore the face off one of them before it could break through the lines, and Sebastian swooped down to join William and Undertaker.

"May I cut in?" he asked, polite as always.

"Be our guest," Undertaker grunted as he dove and rolled. "Seems he’s intent on roasting yours truly, so have at it, the both of you."

Indeed, the ancient had managed to anger the seraph badly enough to divert its attention away from everyone else. William’s scythe hit Barachiel at the same time as Sebastian’s claws. The butler was out of cutlery to throw, so he was now relying on more primal methods to attack. The seraph’s head rotated on its shoulders to turn the battle face toward the demon, and Sebastian got a direct blast from it. He fell to the ground twitching, but before the seraph could turn to try and finish him off with his spear, a dark figure lunged between them and blocked the attack.

"This raven is mine," Claude informed the seraph calmly, his hands gripping the shaft of the angelic weapon. Smoke curled up from his hands as the contact burned him, but the spider demon held on grimly, his slitted eyes glaring into the female face now looking at him. "You won’t rob me of my prize."

"What nonsense," coughed Sebastian as he got to his feet, his muscles twitching involuntarily from the jolt he’d received. The spasms lessened within moments, and he brushed himself off. "So much for your insistence that you didn’t wish for this pairing. One might get the impression that you care for me, Faustus."

Claude smirked at him. “Don’t delude yourself, Sebastian. I didn’t agree to take you as my reward out of any—”

"Both of you, shut it," demanded William, his scythe shooting out to impale the archangel’s torso again. "Concentrate on the task at hand, demons."

"Heh, you sounded like me, just then," observed Undertaker as he leaped through the air with the whistling blade of his scythe leading the way. " _'Shut_ it’. Careful, Spears, I might be rubbing off on you.”

The ancient’s next comment expulsed in an incoherent whoosh of air as Barachiel yanked his spear out of Claude’s hands and hit him in the solar plexus with the shaft of it. Undertaker flew backwards, incidentally bowling over a group of reapers and angels in the process. The seraph pulled Willam’s scythe out of his torso, while at the same time battering both his demonic attackers with his wings.

"All of you will fall before me," promised Barachiel as his injured wing finally tore completely away.

"Looks like we’re still standing to me," grunted Undertaker as he got back to his feet. Behind him, Ronald mowed down another angel, and the ancient glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "Your forces are down to a trickle now, prince. You might want to concede defeat."

Before the seraphim could respond, another horn blew from somewhere overhead. He looked up with the older of his two male faces, and there was finally a hint of fear in his eyes. Undertaker looked up as well, and he sighed.

“ _Now_ he comes.” He looked away from the new swarm of angels descending from the skies, glancing at his three companions. “Might want to step back, gents. I _know_ I’m not mistaken, this time.”

William, Sebastian and Claude all looked up to see the golden winged, golden-haired specimen of angel leading this new charge. William adjusted his glasses, taking in the deep bronze, supple form of the golden armored archangel. He was quite large, compared to his fellows and the reapers. He must have been close to ten feet in height, but he wasn’t a thing of nightmares to behold, like his higher-ranking counterpart.

"Gabriel, I presume?"

Undertaker nodded, grinning as the new regiment of angels descended in tight formation to help the defenders finish off the rest of the rebel angels. Gabriel landed gracefully before the now motionless seraph, his amber gaze blazing on him.

"You have overstepped yourself, prince of Heaven," he announced, his golden broadsword drawn.

"Bit late for the party, aren’t you?" Undertaker quipped.

The archangel turned slightly to look at him. His wavy hair fell to his mid-back, blowing in the wind. “It is not my place to attack my brethren, unless I must. Your numbers needed to be thinned.”

Undertaker’s smile vanished. “So then you sat back on your cloud and watched the entire thing, waiting for them to pick most of us off before intervening?”

Gabriel nodded without apology. “You know as well as I that the balance must be maintained, reaper. Neutral though your kind may be by nature, there were too many of you and there haven’t been enough deaths to balance it out. I’ve come to take Prince Barachiel into custody.” He looked at the seraph coldly. “Lower your weapon, brother. It is time for you to answer for your crimes.”

They half expected the seraph to defy the command, seeing as it was coming from a lower tier angel. Instead, he dropped his spear and it dissipated—much like reaper weapons did when banished. He slowly sank to his knees, staring up at the golden archangel. Evidently, even a prince had respect for the ancient warriors of his kind.

"You understand why I did this, Gabriel." It wasn’t a question.

The archangel nodded. “Yes. I don’t condone it, however, and you will face sentence for your actions immediately. Grim reapers exist for a purpose, and you have directly insulted the Divine with your ambitions.”

"What punishment will he face?" demanded William. "Putting aside your utter disregard for the deaths of my brethren, he and his host laid siege to a sacred place, and they nearly undid creation in the process."

"Prince Barachiel will be made to repent, of course," answered Gabriel, "by serving the very world he attempted to destroy. He will be made into a mortal, reborn in human flesh to live and die amongst them…but he will always remember what he once was."

Undertaker chuckled with delight at the look of sincere dread on Barachiel’s active face. “Harsh, but fitting.”

Gabriel cast a smirk of his own at the ancient. “I thought you would appreciate the irony, my friend.”

Sebastian spoke up then, his handsome features curious. “What if the defensive forces had fallen, archangel?”

"We would have intervened to stop the desecration of the vault," said the archangel simply, "but I had faith that the custodians would win out…though I did not expect them to seek the aid of _your_ kind.”

Gabriel briefly frowned in distaste, but then he smirked again. “Well, it did result in a thinning of your numbers too, at least. I am pleased.”

"You would have been ecstatic if we’d been wiped out completely, I’m sure." said Claude dryly, altering his form to mortal appearance and retrieving a pair of wire-framed, rectangular glasses from his jacket.

"Not necessarily," countered Gabriel with amusement. "After all, demons do have their place in existence. Otherwise our Lord would have long since destroyed Hell and all of its minions."

He looked at Barachiel as some of his troops landed and surrounded him. “Come, brother. Justice awaits.” He turned to Undertaker. “It was good to see you again, Death. I regret that it was under such circumstances, but I am the messenger, not the authority. Otherwise, I would have liked to spare you some of your losses and come sooner.”

"This was all just a game for the Divine," said Undertaker with obvious displeasure. "I’d like to have words about that."

"Careful, reaper," cautioned the archangel coolly. "Recall your place. You were given a pass because our creator wished it. You have your loved one to see to, so put hurt feelings aside."

Undertaker grimaced. “Will he survive?”

Gabriel’s wings shrugged. “That is not for me to say, Death. I hope for your sake he does. Farewell…my forces and I will now take our leave of you. Just remember, the Divine has a plan for everything.”

"Shame its ‘plans’ always result in suffering," commented Undertaker acidly.

Gabriel didn’t respond to that. Instead, he nodded to his troops, and they bound Barachiel in glowing manacles. “I do wish you the best…Undertaker.”

With that said, Gabriel sheathed his sword and took to the skies, with his host following him with the prisoner in tow.

 

* * *

After the angels retreated back to the upper planes, they were able to assess the damage. The casualties were very high, and amongst them was Phillip Jacobs. Ronald stood over the elder somberly as William approached with a question in his eyes, and he sighed, pointing out the hole blasted through Jacobs’ chest.

"He went down defending me," said Ronald helplessly. "I thought for sure I was toast when this really big angel got the jump on me while I was taking down another, but Mr. Jacobs took the blow meant for me. I…never would have expected that, Senpai."

The younger reaper looked into William’s eyes, as if begging him to explain it to him. The supervisor sighed, resting his hands on Ronald’s shoulders. “You couldn’t have prevented this, Knox. Mr. Jacobs made the choice that made the most sense to him; to protect a younger reaper. Perhaps one day, you’ll find yourself in a similar situation. He died well.”

Ronald looked down at the body again, and his eyes filled with tears. “But…I’m a slacker. He could have picked anyone, and…and…” He sniffed and embraced William without warning.

For a moment, the brunet stood frozen to the spot in confusion. He and Ronald had shared many sexual encounters, but comforting was still a foreign concept to him. He looked around and a little voice inside his head chastised him for caring more about what people thought than offering his grieving lover the compassion he so obviously needed. His arms slowly stole around Ron’s waist and he held him, allowing him to cry against his shoulder.

"And…and Sutcliff Senpai might not make it," mumbled Ron against his soiled blazer, hugging him tighter.

"Grell is too bloody stubborn to die," insisted William—not daring to admit he was concerned, as well. He impulsively stroked Ronald’s blood-matted hair. "Don’t fret. It’s over, now."

Undertaker passed by them and as if it was second nature to him, he patted Ronald soothingly on his trembling shoulder and he gave Will a quietly approving look, before moving on to go into the library and check on Grell’s condition.

 

* * *

He heard a voice calling his name…a beloved, familiar voice. Grell’s eyelashes felt glued together with blood and tears as he opened his eyes with difficulty. For a moment he panicked when he saw the blurred face hovering over him, and he wondered where his glasses were. Recalling where he was as the pain returned to him, he cast aside his concerns for the eyewear and focused on responding to his lover.

"Undertaker," he said hoarsely, coughing. He tried to reach up, and the older reaper caught his hand and held it, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

"There you are," said Undertaker with blatant relief, his mouth grinning against the top of Grell’s hand. "For a moment I feared…but you’re stronger than that, my dear. I should have known better."

Grell gave a weak nod and a sickly smirk. “Yes, you should have. What’s…happening?”

"We won," sighed Undertaker, "but the casualties were high. I think Mr. Spears will have even more overtime to complain about, because the Shinigami survivors are down to only a couple hundred or so."

"Will can…get over it," said Grell with annoyance. "They can send…agents from other…branches to fill in…until more of us are made or born. So, it’s…really over, my love? The world will go…on?"

Undertaker nodded, and Grell felt something warm and wet land on his face. Realizing it was a tear, he was a bit startled. He squeezed his hand and he smiled up at him. “Don’t cry. I’m…not leaving you.”

"No, you certainly aren’t," agreed the ancient fiercely. "The medics will see to that. They say that you’re still in serious condition, but stable. They’ve been working hard to help your body repair itself, and I’ve got no intention of leaving your side again until you’ve regained your strength."

"How many…did we lose?" Grell asked, pleased with the older reaper’s devotion to him. "Will? Ronnie?"

"They are both alive and well…relatively," replied Undertaker. "The latter is worried sick about you, though. I’ll bring him to see you in a little while."

"I may not…be awake," warned Grell, his eyes already drifting shut again as the medicine began to ease his pain and put him to sleep. "Just tell him…I’ll be on my feet again by…tomorrow."

"Stubborn redhead," said Undertaker with a smile. "Thank Styx."

The last thing Grell felt was Undertaker’s lips against his, before he fell asleep again.

 

* * *

There was a ceremony held shortly after the losses were counted up, and the bodies of the fallen Shinigami were prepared for mass burial in the city graveyard—while the demon casualties disintegrated on their own after several hours. Most of the demon host left with the grudging thanks of Dispatch, save for Sebastian Michaelis and Clause Faustus. They stayed respectfully outside the cemetery, waiting in silence for the burial ceremony to complete. The surviving reapers laid Erica flowers over each grave and took a moment of silence, each paying quiet homage to those who fell to defend their realm.

Eric noticed the waiting demons as the groups began to disperse, and he frowned at them. “What’re _they_ waitin’ for?” he muttered to his partner. “Tha rest o’ their kin have gone. They’ve go’ no reason tae hang around.”

"Actually, they do," sighed Alan. He pulled Eric off to the side, away from the crowd. He held his hands tightly and he looked up at him as if memorizing his features. "Do you remember what I said to you while we were fighting, at the end?"

The taller reaper’s brows furrowed. “I remember ya sayin’ we needed tae talk abou’ somethin’, but then tha fighting go’ really intense an’ ya ne’er told me more.”

Alan sighed, looking over at the patiently waiting pair of demons. “There was a price for the aid they sent us, after all. I agreed to it.”

Eric felt like he had a fist around his heart, squeezing it. He swallowed with dread. “Alan…wha’ did ya _do_?”

"What I had to," said the smaller man softly. He reached up to trace Eric’s features with his gloved fingertips. "What _you_ would have done too, if you were in my place. I just know it.”

Eric wasn’t liking where this was going; not one bit. “Tell me.”

Alan looked back at Michaelis and Faustus again. “I made a deal with their monarch. In exchange for their help, I’m to serve the Duke for one-hundred years, and allow him to study me.”

The blond man couldn’t have looked more horrified if he tried. “ _What_?! Tha’s…tha’s ridiculous! They were in jeopardy too! It was in their own best interests tae—”

"Shh, Eric," hushed Alan, laying two fingers over his mouth as some of the passing reapers—including Undertaker and William—paused to look at them. "This was the price they asked for, and I agreed to it. What’s a hundred years to our kind? The Duke could have demanded a blood price and killed me, but he chose temporary servitude, instead. There was no other way."

Eric shook his head, his mouth trembling slightly above the short-trimmed beard on his chin. “No. There mus’ be some other way. I won’t let ‘em take ya!”

"What’s this all about?" asked William before Alan could respond to his partner’s vehement proclamation. He walked over to them, his eyes flicking between the pair as Undertaker joined him.

"That’s what I’d like to know," agreed the ancient, his expression unusually somber.

Eric stabbed an accusing finger at the unwelcome demons, not bothering to mask his accent as he usually did around everyone save his lover and Ronald. “They want tae take him back to Hell wi’ ‘em.”

"I made a bargain with the Duke of their clan," Alan explained gently, squeezing his lover’s hand for silence. "This is the price he’s asked for." He explained the deal to his superior and Undertaker, remarkably calm but for the pallor of his face.

William shook his head. “I can’t allow it.”

Eric breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir.”

"Mr. Humphries, we are waiting," said Claude from beyond the fence.

"He’s no’ going anywhere wi’ ya!" Eric said, stepping in front of the smaller reaper protectively. The demons couldn’t step on their hallowed ground if they tried, so as long as he kept the cemetery between them and Alan…

Alan stepped out from behind his taller partner, nodding calmly. “I’m ready.”

Eric stared at him, all of his emotions showing plainly in his eyes. “Ya cannae seriously mean tae do this, Alan! What…will they do tae yeh?”

"A moment," interjected William. Ronald came over curiously, and the supervisor put his scythe out to block Alan’s step, before pushing his glasses further up his nose. William looked at Sebastian, ignoring the spider demon completely. "You know good and well that I can’t allow one of my agents to share privileged information with your kind, demon. Who’s to say you won’t use it against us, after all?"

Sebastian smirked. “The Duke’s curiosity is no affair of mine. My task here is finished, and I must report back to my master. Chances are, the Duke already knows more about your kind than you can even imagine. His demand wasn’t made for the sake of obtaining knowledge, Mr. Spears, but for the sake of his own amusement.”

The butler glanced at his slightly taller companion with a little frown. “That is how our Duke’s motivations run.”

Claude smirked.

Ignoring the meaningful exchange between the two demons, Eric again tried to block his lover off from going to them. “No. Tell him tae think o’ some other price.”

Alan looked up at him with his heart in his eyes. “I agreed to this bargain of my own free will, Eric. I won’t dishonor myself by backing out, now. Mr. Spears, please don’t allow him to stop me. If we don’t keep our end of the bargain, then we’re no better than _they_ are.”

William stood torn, but Undertaker intercepted Slingby in his place. “Let him go, lad,” advised the ancient. “He’s made his choice, and unless you want to start a war with Hell, you’d best accept it.”

"I won’t!" Eric struggled against the older reaper’s hold on him as Alan walked out of the cemetery to join the two demons. "Alan! Don’t go! There must be some other way!"

Anderson had come up in time to hear most of it, and he joined Undertaker in holding the agonized blond back. “You’ve got to let him go, son.”

"I’m sorry, beloved," called out the brunet. "Please wait for me. I know I’ll spend every moment thinking of you."

He stepped out the gates and came to stand between the two ebony-haired, handsome demons. Sebastian’s gaze met Alan’s over the distance, and he nodded. “I shall see what I can do to ensure he is treated well during his stay, Mr. Slingby.”

Desperate now, Eric began to drag _both_ of the reapers hampering his movements. “Alan, no! _Alan_!”

Alan’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears as he looked back at him. “I love you.”

Eric began to howl his name even louder, and Claude and Sebastian prudently chose to leave with their prisoner while they still could. Alan vanished in a burst of feathers and cobwebs with the two of them, as they teleported out of the Shinigami realm with him in tow.

Eric’s struggles ceased, and he stared at the spot where his partner stood just seconds ago. His legs gave out beneath him and Undertaker supported him as he broke down.

 

* * *

"Ciel, they’ve stopped!"

The young Earl frowned at Soma like he’d just announced himself the queen of England. “What do you mean, ‘they’ve stopped’?”

The Indian prince moved aside from the window and ushered him over to it. “The undead…they’ve all fallen over and they aren’t moving, anymore! See for your yourself!”

Curious, Ciel did as advised. They were on the second floor of the manor, and there was an un-obscured view of the lawn below from the study’s window. Sure enough, the bodies littering the ground in various states of decay were lying still and cold as…well, as the dead.

Ciel blinked, and Elizabeth came running into the study then, exclaiming the same news that Soma had just given him. “Ciel, Ciel! They’ve stopped moving!”

The boy nodded. “So I see.”

She came up beside him and took one of his hands in hers. “Is it…over?” She looked out the window with him, watching as the clouds scattered to reveal a perfect, white half-moon.

Ciel returned the pressure of her hand. “I think so, Lizzy.”

_~But then where in blazes is Sebastian?~_

 

* * *

They brought their Shinigami prisoner before the Duke, and Alan gracefully knelt before his throne. “As promised, Duke, I’m at your service.”

The Duke smiled, revealing sharp canines. “Excellent. Good work, my minions. We’ll all continue to dine well, thanks to your efforts.” To Alan, he said: “Worry not, little reaper. You will be returned to your realm after your indebted time ends…what’s left of you, anyway.”

"My lord, I would request that you show this reaper mercy," Sebastian said, startling Alan and drawing a grimace of annoyance from Claude. The butler bowed elegantly to the Duke, ignoring his arranged mate’s displeasure. "Were it not for Mr. Humphries efforts, we would all be going very hungry, indeed…or we would be victims to the whims of the archangel, Gabriel. He revealed that he could have intervened, but he deliberately chose not to, for the sake of letting Barachiel’s forces bring our numbers down."

"Interesting," said the Duke pensively, his gaze flickering over Alan, "though I should remind you that honor and fairness aren’t usually part of our creed, Sebastian."

"Of this, I am quite aware," assured Sebastian with another bow, "but nonetheless, the captive has honored his part of the agreement, and it’s by no small thanks to him that our kind will continue to thrive. All I ask of his grace is that he considers that."

The Duke watched him silently for a moment, before looking at Claude. “And what are your thoughts on this?”

The spider demon looked at his mate, a flash of desire making his amber gaze light up and glow red. “Michaelis makes a logical point, your grace. I do not personally care what you choose to do with the slave, but the condition in which he is returned to his brethren a century from now may have a direct influence on future relations between our kind and his.”

The Duke nodded, not denying it. Shinigami could be quite troublesome, if they rallied together. While they were competitors against demonkind when it came to human souls, they were the only buffer between them and the angels. There could be a time when Hell might need to call upon the aid of those neutral immortals to defend against ambitious forces of Heaven, seeking to put an end to demons.

"Guards," he said to the demon soldiers in the throne room, "take my new page to the bath house to be cleaned up, and begin instructing him of his base duties to me."

Two winged officers briskly escorted Alan out of the room, and the Duke nodded to the remaining guards. “Leave us.”

When they complied, he examined the handsome couple he’d matched up. He smiled. “I understand you must be frustrated by the lack of proper attention you’ve been getting from your new mate.”

Claude nodded once, not denying it. “Yes, your grace.”

The Duke looked to Sebastian. “And I understand that your first priority is your contract, as I stated before. I could not change that if I wanted to…but there is no need for you to return directly to your mortal master. I will grant your request, Sebastian, if you will satisfy your mate here and now, for my pleasure.”

Sebastian cast an absolutely hateful glare at Claude, who smirked. Regardless of his resentful feelings, the raven bowed again, and he began to unbutton his garments. “As you wish, your grace.”

 

* * *

Grell heard all about Alan’s sacrifice when he awoke again the next day, of course. It was all over the city, how the soft-spoken brunet that everyone thought was too compassionate had bravely given himself into the custody of demons for a century of enslavement. Not one for compassion himself, Grell tried to shrug it off. Reapers didn’t age. Both Alan and Eric would still be young when his contract ended, and they could have their “happily ever after”.

"He’s still alive," Grell reminded the brooding blond as he walked out of the hospital with him. He was eager to see Undertaker, who had promised him a nice dinner upon his release. "A century is nothing, to our kind. Don’t be so dramatic. You’re depressing me."

Eric stopped in his tracks and glared at him fiercely enough for Grell to fall into a defensive stance and call his death scythe. “You don’t understand it at all, do you?” accused the taller man. “Alan is in _Hell_ , Sutcliff…being subjected to death knows what!”

"He’s stronger than any of us thought," said Grell defensively. "At least he isn’t dead!"

"But what will be left of him, when they’ve finally finished with him?" demanded Eric, gesturing wildly with one hand and nearly hitting another passing reaper in the process. The woman hurried away, recognizing him and catching enough of the conversation to know he wasn’t to be trifled with.

Grell hesitated a moment before answering. “He’s still going to be Alan. The demons can’t take that away from him.”

Eric stared at him. “What if it had been Undertaker? Would you still be so casual about it?”

Grell faltered, finally empathizing him. “I…” He sighed and put away his scythe, spreading his hands. “Well, what do you want me to say, Eric? He chose! Instead of lamenting your temporary loss of contact with him, you should be proud of him for giving up his freedom for the sake of all of us.”

Eric lowered his gaze. “I know…but I can’t bear to think of it…what they might be doing to him right now, and me helpless to stop it.”

Grell awkwardly patted his shoulder. “I’m sure he’s drawing strength from the knowledge that when it’s over, he’ll have you waiting for him.”

Eric jerked away and wiped his eyes. “Just go. Go home to your lover, Grell. Cherish him. At least yours is still with you.”

The redhead sighed helplessly. “Eric, I—”

The blond stalked away without another word.

 

* * *

Sebastian showed up again three days after the anomalies ceased. He arrived in a hail of black feathers as he had the last time, directly before his young master. Beyond the point of being startled by his comings and goings, Ciel looked up from the chess table at him.

"I presume you and your brethren helped the reapers put an end to the threat," he remarked casually, moving his knight piece.

Sebastian nodded and bowed—a bit stiffly. “Yes, my lord. The apocalypse has been evaded.” He was sore, but not unpleasantly so. Inwardly, he seethed over the pleasure he took in the coupling despite his best efforts not to do so. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so thoroughly and delightfully taken by another, and he loathed himself as much as his mate for enjoying it so much.

"Why are you moving like you’ve strained something?" Ciel demanded cluelessly. "Were you injured?"

"Not badly, young master," assured the demon, keeping the truth behind his ginger motions to himself. It wasn’t a lie. He’d answered the question truthfully.

"Well, I suppose you should get some rest then," said the boy after some thought. "You’re no good to me if you’re too stiff to do your duties."

Sebastian bowed again. “As you wish, my lord. Where is the lady Elizabeth and our other guests?”

"I sent Lizzy and her handmaid back to her parents’ home, once the threat was gone," answered Ciel. "As for Soma and Agni, they’ve returned to their residency as well. An amazing number of people in London survived the zombie attacks, actually. They are more resourceful than I thought."

"So it would seem, sir," agreed the butler. He turned to go. "I will come when you ring for me."

"Wait, Sebastian," bade the Earl. The demon halted and looked over his shoulder at him. Ciel touched the locket he now wore around his throat, a memento of his grandmother Phantomhive, given to him by the Undertaker. "How did my family informant fair in the fight? Did he survive?"

Sebastian smiled and nodded. “Oh yes, my lord. Undertaker is alive and well…as are all of the reapers we’ve had encounters with.”

Ciel snorted. “Unfortunately. Very well, then. You are dismissed until I retire for the evening.”

Sebastian bowed once more, before stepping out of the room.

 

* * *

While some reapers celebrated surviving the battle with their lovers, Eric Slingby tossed and turned in his bed, drenched in sweat as his nightmares about his partner’s fate plagued him.

“ _Alan_!”

He sat bolt upright on the bed, impulsively reaching for the reaper that was supposed to be lying next to him. Gasping for breath, he stared blankly into the darkness, and he made a vow then and there.

"I’ll free ya, Alan," he promised his absent lover. "Somehow."

Outside, the wind blew softly.

 

* * *

-To be continued


	19. Epilogue

* * *

Nobody really expected them to go through with it, but three days after the battle ended, Undertaker and Grell arranged a wedding with a human priest. Ciel graciously offered to host the event at his manor, if only out of curiosity to see how they were going to make this work. 

Undertaker stood under the gazebo before his beloved, wearing a tuxedo and his ever-present smile. He lifted the veil to look at his bride, his green-gold eyes flicking over the redhead with admiration. “My dear,” he whispered, “I could not ask for a more beautiful spouse.”

Grell smiled, his sharp teeth concealed beneath illusion. “And I could not ask for a more handsome one,” he said, taking the taller reaper’s hands in his.

He was dressed as a woman, in a lovely white lace wedding gown. Attending the outdoor ceremony were most of the Dispatch department, Earl Phantomhive, his butler and his servants. The attending priest had no idea of the bride and groom’s true nature, or that of the guests. He stood quietly and waited for the couple to settle.

"This is insane," muttered William to Ronald out the side of his mouth.

"Not to them," whispered the blond back. "Look how happy Senpai is. He makes a pretty girl, if you ask me."

William’s answering scoff held no real vehemence. “Dressing up as a woman to take a human bonding ceremony…only Sutcliff could—”

"Shh," interrupted Ron with a nod at the couple. "It’s about to start."

The supervisor subsided into silence, though he was still mentally ranting over all this. The priest began to speak, addressing the crowd. “Friends and family, we are gathered here today to—”

"I do," said Undertaker.

The priest looked at him and blinked. “Sir, you must allow me to speak the vows, before you agree to them.”

"Oh," said the silver-haired reaper. "Right. Carry on, then."

Several people chuckled, and the priest smiled a little. “Now, as I was saying: We are gathered here today to see this man and this woman wed in holy matrimony. Should anyone have a reason why they should not become man and wife, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

Grell immediately shot a warning look at William, but the supervisor only smirked and held his tongue. The priest went on. “Let us continue. Khronos Undertaker, do you take Grell Sutcliff to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

"Khronos?" whispered Ronald, blinking.

"So _that’s_ his true name,” muttered William with interest.

"I do." Undertaker beamed at his lover happily.

"And do you, Grell Sutcliff, take—"

"Absolutely," interrupted Grell. He looked down at himself. "Though I probably shouldn’t be wearing white, after all."

The priest cleared his throat and people chuckled. “The rings?”

Ciel came forward with the wedding bands, and the Shinigami couple took them and placed them on one anothers’ fingers.

"Then by the power invested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife," finished the priest. "You may kiss—"

Undertaker already had Grell in his arms, lip-locked with him.

"—the…uh…bride," finished the priest awkwardly. It must have been a rarity for him to see a wedded couple so obviously in love, given society’s penchant for marriages of convenience.

Eric was the first to begin clapping, and others soon followed. The newlyweds finally broke apart from each other, and Grell turned his back on the crowd to throw the bouquet. It was a sad irony that it practically landed on Eric Slingby’s head, and he stared at it stupidly and flushed when his fellow Dispatch officers looked away uncomfortably. The blond forced a smile as Grell turned around, and he held up the bouquet. “One of the ladies should have caught this,” he sighed, glancing around at the female reapers and the one human woman present for the ceremony.

"You never know, Eric," stated Grell with a smile; mindful not to discuss the tragedy of the man’s love-life in mixed company.

The blond nodded, absently brushing his fingers over the flower petals. “I suppose.”

"Well, that was nice," said Undertaker, putting an arm around Grell’s waist. "Now, let’s eat!"

 

* * *

The banquet was held inside the manor. Many of the reapers excused themselves for work, offering their congratulations to the new couple before leaving. Some stayed for the food, including Ronald, William and Eric. The champagne flowed freely and Baldroy indulged too much and ended up being carried to his room by Finnian—which was a comical sight, considering how small the gardener was compared to him. Sebastian gracefully offered a toast to the newlyweds, and when the banquet was over, the reapers thanked Earl Phantomhive for hosting the occasion and teleported back to their realm.

Much like London, the Shinigami city was in a shambles. It would take months to fully repair the damage done from the weather abnormalities and the battle. Grell and Undertaker went straight to the redhead’s apartment to celebrate their wedding night, and their mouths met in a heated kiss as soon as they stepped through the door.

"So," Grell said between kisses, "Bermuda?"

"Sounds like a fine place for a honeymoon," agreed his spouse huskily, "but you’ll have to forgive me, love…I can’t wait that long to have you."

"Nor would I expect you to," giggled the smaller man. "Oh, this dress itches! It’s beautiful, but not very comfortable at all."

Undertaker scooped him up bride style, grinning. “Then allow your new husband to relieve you of it, my dear.”

Grell put his arms around the ancient’s neck and kissed him as he carried him into the bedroom, his long train trailing along the floor. It was a miracle that Undertaker didn’t trip over it, but they made it into the room without an incident, and he laid Grell on the bed and bade him roll over so that he could unfasten the dress for him. Grell sighed with relief as the back of the dress came open, and he sat up so that his companion could slide it down over his shoulders. The balled up stockings he’d stuffed down the front to give the illusion of breasts fell out, and Grell reached up to unpin his hair and let it loose. He hadn’t bothered to alter the color of his hair for the event, and it spilled down around his shoulders in a glorious curtain of red. The illusion hiding his teeth faded, and he made a delighted noise in his throat as his spouse kissed his neck and shoulder, running his hands over his arms as he slid the material down and helped him out of the sleeves.

"You are very good at that," complimented Grell, shutting his eyes.

"At what, dear?" Undertaker pressed another kiss against his skin, tugging the dress down over his hips.

"The soft touches," answered the redhead, "and undressing me with ease. Most men would struggle with a dress like this, but you make it slide right off."

The ancient’s mouth grinned against his neck. “I’ve had my share of practice, love.”

"I’ll just pretend you’re a natural, thank you. I’d rather not picture you with anyone else, tonight."

"Well, quite a bit of that practice was with you," informed the older reaper, "back when you were a human woman."

"Oh." Grell blushed with pleasure. "You undressed me a lot, did you?"

"Mm-hmm. My lady never had clothes on for long, when in my presence."

"Insatiable rogue, you." Grell turned around to face him, grinning. He sat up on his knees and he wriggled the rest of the way out of the dress, before pushing it aside. He smiled at Undertaker as he noticed the way his eyes roved over the lacy white panties and the stockings covering his legs to the thigh. "See something you like, darling?"

"Indeed, I do," agreed the older man. "Oh dear, we never tossed your garter." He reached out to hook a finger beneath the white lacy garter in question, and he released it to pop lightly against the redhead’s pale thigh with a satisfying sting.

Grell chuckled and scooted toward him, maneuvering his body so that he was straddling his lap. He untied the bow holding Undertaker’s hair in its ponytail and he kissed him softly on the lips. “Khronos. I really like that. Why did you never tell me that was your name, before we made our wedding plans?”

Undertaker shrugged. “The subject never came up, and I’ve been going by simply ‘Undertaker’ for so long that I’m just used to it now. I think the only reaper alive that actually remembers when I last went by ‘Khronos’ is Mr. Anderson, and he respects my privacy enough not to have spread it around.”

Grell combed his fingers through the pale, silken hair, gazing into his companion’s compelling eyes as he brushed his bangs aside. It was growing out fast, and soon the fringe would again be as long as it was before he cut it.

"Want me to trim it again, lovely?"

Grell thought about it, and he shook his head. Undertaker was already keeping his nails trimmed short for him, because he liked to do the honors of preparing him when they made love. “The shaggy bangs are part of who you are, now. As I’ve said before, I fell in love with an eccentric mortician, and I like him just the way he is.”

Undertaker squeezed him affectionately and kissed him. “I’m a very lucky man, to have a wife that doesn’t want to change me.”

"Oh, I’m going to train you to put the toilet seat down," assured Grell. "And to wipe off the mirror after you brush your teeth. Some things even I just can’t abide."

The mortician laughed and shifted beneath him, pressing their groins together through the material of their garments. “You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks, dearie.”

"You’re never too old to…oooh!" Grell’s rebuttal was lost in a moan of pleasure as Undertaker kissed his neck and fondled his nipples. Feeling his hardness grinding against him, he undulated on top of him and barely resisted the impulse to bite his lips. He was just too bloody good with that mouth and those hands!

"Khron-Undy," sputtered the redhead, unsure of which name his lover wished to be called by, even though he had again hung up the mantle of a death god.

A soft chuckle emitted from the velvet lips caressing his throat. “Call me whatever you want in the privacy of our bed, my dear. It’s only in public that I’d prefer to go by ‘Undertaker’, though I suppose it doesn’t matter much now, since half of Dispatch heard my old name at the wedding.” He lowered his head and he flicked his tongue against the right bud, making Grell shiver with lust.

"D-darling," gasped the redhead when the mortician’s hand slid down his taut abdomen and between his parted thighs, settling on the growing bulge in his panties. He rubbed against his palm impulsively, whimpering with desire. Undertaker gave a gentle squeeze, before tugging the material down to expose the stiffening shaft. He began to caress it in a teasing manner and he switched to the other nipple, licking and sucking it.

"Leave the garter belt and the stockings," demanded Undertaker in a passion roughened voice when Grell started to undo the clasps to remove them.

Grinning, the redhead complied. He was quite fond of his lover’s particular little kinks when it came to undergarments. He moaned again when the hand fondling her arousal gripped it and began to stroke with even, steady pumps. Undertaker released his nipple and he claimed his lips again, groaning into his mouth with need. Deciding that one good turn deserved another, the redhead reached down to undo the fancy trousers. He did adore his silver lunatic all dressed up and dapper, but removing the clothes was just as much fun as looking at him in them. He got the pants unbuttoned and he slipped his hand in to free the substantial erection from its confines. Undertaker sighed with relief and Grell smirked, guessing it wasn’t very comfortable to have such an impressive shaft restrained.

"There now, my love," purred the redhead as he began to stroke it. "Mmm, I know this fellow was eager to get out."

"Always, darlin’," panted the ancient. "He’s a greedy thing, when it comes to you."

Grell swallowed another moan as the older man’s stroking sped up. “Khronos,” he sighed, shifting atop him. He started to loosen the rest of his suit with his free hand while they fondled each other, and he sucked on his tongue when he slipped it into his mouth to explore. Somebody’s phone started to buzz, but they both ignored it. If Will thought he was coming in to work on his wedding day, he was sadly mistaken.

Undertaker’s tie landed on the floor, and his jacket soon joined it. Grell unbuttoned his shirt and he left it that way, finding his spouse unbelievably sexy just like that, with his shirt hanging open and his pants undone. “I predict we aren’t going to get fully naked before you’re inside of me,” he said when Undertaker’s lips broke away from his to kiss their way down his throat again.

"Sounds fair to me," murmured Undertaker. He blindly reached for the bottle on the nightstand, still stroking Grell off as he retrieved it. Just as eager to join their bodies in the most intimate way, Grell helped him unscrew the cap and he dribbled the oil over Undertaker’s fingers for him. He stopped fondling him long enough to apply some to his own hand and begin lubing up his erection with it. Undertaker hissed and sucked in a sharp breath as Grell’s gripping hand slid easily over his sex, slippery with oil.

"Now, now," admonished Grell in a soft, teasing command. "You aren’t permitted to finish before you are inside of me, darling."

"Then you…ought to stop petting it, love." Undertaker bit his neck lightly, making him gasp and shiver. His fingers burrowed into the back of Grell’s panties to seek out his entrance, and the redhead relaxed for him, letting the first digit ease inside.

"But I _love_ to pet it,” whined Grell, loving the feel of his finger pushing deep inside, then withdrawing to do it again. “Undy…oh, my darling!”

The mortician grinned. “We haven’t even really gotten started yet, little rose. Unh…oh, you’ve really got to stop that now.”

A growl rumbled in Grell’s throat, and he pushed Undertaker down on the bed to lie beneath him. The silver reaper bore an expression of faint surprise, before the delighted grin returned. “Are you topping tonight, then?”

"I’m still taking you inside of me," panted Grell, "but I do want to be on top. I’m on fire with need of you!"

"So I’ve noticed," teased Undertaker. He thrust his finger in again, drawing another whimpering moan from him. "I half expect you to burst into flame right on top of me. It would be an interesting sight, but it would ruin your nice bedding."

"Don’t…tease," gasped the redhead, rocking on top of him encouragingly as he fingered him. He cried out when the determined finger stroked him inside just right, and he bit his lip.

"Kiss me," demanded Undertaker, watching him with lusty intensity.

Grell obeyed, and he moaned when the older reaper sucked the blood from his lips that he’d drawn. It seemed there wasn’t a single encounter they shared that didn’t end up with cut lips or tongues, but it added a certain spice to their lovemaking. He continued to stroke his shaft, but he was careful not to put too much pressure and speed behind it. Undertaker knew his own limits and when he said he was in danger of spilling himself soon, Grell believed him. When the mortician’s breath caught in his throat and he grunted a pained warning, Grell reluctantly stopped and settled for caressing that toned, scarred torso instead.

"I love your body," he gasped. "Every ghostly inch of it."

"And I love yours," replied Undertaker. He swatted Grell on the bottom without warning, making him flush and gasp with delight. "Especially when I draw a blush in certain parts."

"And you do that so well," breathed the redhead with a smile.

He closed his eyes in bliss and uttered another shaken moan as Undertaker pierced him with a second finger. He began to thrust on top of him, matching the rhythm of the pumping fingers. He caught hold of the single small braid in Undertaker’s hair and he brought it to his nose, enjoying the scent of it. His darling used some sort of herbal shampoo he blended himself and while the aroma didn’t suit Grell, it was very fitting for Undertaker. It smelled like black opium to him, and since the mortician had gotten the opportunity to make it and start using it again, Grell didn’t want him to wash his hair with anything else.

"You smell so good," announced the redhead as he undulated on top of him. "Oooh…aahh, d-darling…oh gods!"

The combination of being stroked off and fingered at once finally overcame him, and Grell tensed and came all over his love’s tight abdomen. It had come on so suddenly and so strongly, all he could do was shudder and whimper as he rode it out. His crimson hair fell over his eyes as he bowed his head and pressed his hands against Undertaker’s chest for balance, and he didn’t even mind when some of it got in the seed he’d just ejected.

He didn’t get much of a chance to recover; Undertaker made a low sound of need and withdrew his fingers, only to replace them with the girth of his sex. Grell moaned as his spouse drove into him, tossing his head back and deliberately sinking down to sheath him completely. Panting at the feel of him inside, Grell opened his eyes and looked down at him, smiling. He looked so very handsome, lying there like that with his masses of silver hair spread out around him. Undertaker gazed up at him and he cupped his hips, guiding the redhead’s motions as he began to slowly thrust beneath him. He was very good at detecting how much Grell could take, as he demonstrated now.

Grell placed his hands over the ones resting on his hips and he began to undulate, his eyes locked with his companion’s. “How did I ever survive without this every night, before?” wondered the redhead aloud, his voice winded from his climax. He moved sinuously on top of him, his pelvis rotating as Undertaker’s hard length pumped in and out of him. The silver reaper was quiet, gazing up at him with love and passion in his eyes as their rhythm picked up. Guessing that he was concentrating on not coming too soon, Grell kept his hands over his and he avoided touching him anywhere that might stimulate him too much. When the ancient began to relax, lips parting with pleasure and eyes going heavy-lidded, he knew he was back in control.

"My beautiful rose," sighed Undertaker.

He took his hands off Grell’s hips to explore his body, sensitive, talented fingers stroking, caressing and kneading. Sensing that it was safe to do so again, Grell did the same. He ran the back of his nails over his love’s cheek, and Undertaker turned his head to kiss the fingertips. The gesture made Grell feel cherished, and his emotions rose to the surface at the thought of how close he’d come to losing this man. Undertaker could be a fierce, aggressive lover or a tender one, and right now he seemed inclined to the latter. Grell had no issue with that. Nobody had ever truly _made love_ to him, the way Undertaker did. He bent over to kiss him, purring against his lips as the older reaper rubbed his back.

"I love you," sighed the redhead, "no matter what name you go by, you are my prince."

Undertaker smiled and combed his fingers through Grell’s hair, deepening the kiss. He put more force behind his thrusts, but he kept them slow and steady. He kissed away the moans that broke on Grell’s lips, his tongue danced against his and his low exclamations of pleasure mingled with the redhead’s.

They must have stayed like that for a half hour or more, lovingly caressing, kissing and rocking, until Grell hardened again and Undertaker started to peak. The ancient gasped Grell’s name and held him tight, pumping harder and faster beneath him. Grell matched his pace and traced his panting mouth with the tip of his tongue, getting close to another climax, himself. He felt it when his lover reached completion; felt his long, thick shaft twitching inside of him to fill him. He muffled Undertaker’s resulting groan with another kiss and he watched the beautiful expression of bliss flitter over his handsome, scarred features.

He didn’t mind that he didn’t get his second orgasm. Just seeing the pleasure on Undertaker’s face and hearing his helpless, breathy cries was worth ten of them, to him. He sighed in satisfaction when Undertaker began to soften inside of him, and he lay his head on his chest and relaxed on top of him, his hardness pressing between their bodies. Undertaker stroked his back and his bottom, spiraling back down from his pleasure.

"You’re still unsatisfied," observed the older reaper, kissing the crown of Grell’s head.

"Hardly." Grell lifted his head off Undertaker’s chest and smirked at him. "I love watching you spend yourself in me, and I came first."

"Hmm, but I’d be a poor husband if I left my lady wanting," sighed the ancient with a smile. He rolled Grell off of him and he lay half on top of him, kissing him softly. "And so, I’ll take care of this now."

Grell’s brows shot up, but he smiled and giggled as Undertaker squirmed down to finish him orally. He parted his thighs and closed his eyes, stroking the older man’s soft, pale hair as he took him into his mouth and started pleasuring him.

Oh yes, he was the luckiest reaper in the world.

 

* * *

Undertaker returned to the mortuary business after spending a week in Bermuda with Grell. He had quite a bit of fixing up to do, having abandoned the shop for so long. He’d had the sense to put dust covers on all of his furniture in the living quarters in the back, and he’d emptied his pantry of all perishables before leaving. There was a leak in the roof that required fixing, and the wiring needed maintenance too. He was forced to work by candlelight during the first week of his return, but he soon got it sorted out with his spouse’s help. Knowing that he didn’t like to spend much time in the Shinigami realm, Grell moved some of his things in and though he still kept his apartment, he stayed at Undertaker’s most of the time.

Life went more or less back to normal—or rather, as normal as it could be with such a shortage of agents in the London branch. Every one of them had overtime each day, and the only thing Grell had to look forward to was coming home to his love at the end of each day and getting a foot rub and a hot bath. Unlike his redheaded coworker, William did not take any time off—and his exhaustion made him slip up.

It was an innocent mistake…barely noticeable, in fact. Grell was a shrewd reaper, though, and one day a couple of weeks after his return to work, he heard William say something that threw him for a loop.

"You look terrible," said Grell after he and Will finally finished up some paperwork that they’d had to stay late to complete. "When are you going to go on a bloody _vacation_ , already?”

"When the other branches send enough workers to make up for our losses," said the supervisor coolly. "I’m fine. Ronald’s snoring just kept me up last night."

Grell nearly fell off the desk he was casually sitting on. “Wait…say that again?”

William frowned, looked up at him and swore. “Nothing.”

"You said Ronald’s snoring kept you up," insisted Grell, crossing his legs. "How did _that_ happen, Will? What was he doing, sleeping close enough to you to…to…oh. _Oh_!”

"It’s nothing," snapped the brunet, flushing.

Grell hopped down off the table and peered closely at him. “William T. Spears, are you involved with my trainee?”

He looked strangely uncomfortable. “Yes,” he admitted.

"For how long?" sputtered Grell. The thought of little Ronnie having sex with the man he was once so in love with was disturbing to him. "Tell me you weren’t together when we kissed!"

"That was a—"

"You two _kissed_?” The shocked question startled both of them, and Grell turned to see Ronald standing in the door with a handful of documents. He turned his shocked gaze from William to Grell. They had both been so involved in their discussion that they didn’t realize the office door wasn’t locked, and they didn’t hear him come in. “When did _that_ happen?”

William closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Not long after you and I got involved, Ronald. It was just a brief, foolish moment when stress got the better of me. I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Grell threw his hands up. “When? After you told me that you’ve been sleeping with my trainee, or before?”

"I didn’t have an order planned!" snapped William. He looked to Ronald, his expression softening slightly. "Nothing happened. It was a single kiss that lasted for only a moment, and we both came to our senses quickly."

Ronald dropped the paperwork on the floor, shut the office door and leaned back against it with his arms crossed over his chest. “Who initiated it?”

William hesitated, and Grell acted on impulse. “I did,” he fibbed.

Ronald gave him a sullen look.

"It was when my darling Undertaker was incarcerated," defended Grell. "Ronnie, you know how long I pined over our cold, handsome supervisor. For years, he was the one I wanted the most, and when my heart began to drift in another direction…well, I needed to know if it was real. I thought I would risk one kiss, because I was unsure whether my growing attachment to our gorgeous legend was sincere, or simply brought about because he was kind to me in ways that _this_ one never was.”

William held his tongue, watching the exchange with a stoicism he probably didn’t truly feel. Ronald looked at him suspiciously. “But you said stress got the better of you, Will. What’s that all about, if Grell initiated it?”

"I…briefly fell into the kiss," explained the supervisor. "I think perhaps because it occurred to me that it was my last chance to find out if there might be something more between your mentor and I than my constant irritation with him."

"And?" Ronald raised his brows expectantly.

William glanced at the redhead. “There was a spark, but Sutcliff and I never have and never will be compatible on any other level than volatile attraction.”

"Angry sex is all we would have had together," assured Grell with a shrug and a toss of his head. "Not that I have any particular objections to that, but the kiss _did_ help me realize that the one I truly wanted was the madman in the cell, not the stiff-laced workaholic. I’m married to the man I want now, and I didn’t know that you were in a relationship with Willikins, or I wouldn’t have done it.”

"I don’t know about that," sighed Ronald. "So there’s nothing going on between you two now?"

"Absolutely not," said William vehemently. "And nothing ever will be."

Grell nodded in agreement. “Though I can’t help but flirt now and then, it isn’t a sincere invitation, any longer. He’s all yours.”

"Gee, thanks so much for ‘giving’ him to me," huffed the blond, almost pouting.

"He gave nothing," William said, and he went around the desk to approach the young man. Hesitantly and awkwardly, he put his hands on Ronald’s shoulders. "I faltered once, but I’ve stayed true to you since then."

"He has," agreed the redhead. "When does the man ever have time to pursue anyone else, really? I was beginning to think the only romance in his life was with his death scythe an his glasses. Imagine what a sight _that_ would be, Ronnie.”

William colored with indignation, but Ronald finally cracked a smile. “Good point. He wasn’t an easy fish to reel in.” He looked up at his lover. “You’re taking me out tonight. Dinner, then a party somewhere. If we can’t find one, you’ll take me to a club and we’re going to throw down on the dance floor whether you like it or not. Got a problem with that, boss?”

William sighed. “I suppose this is my penance. Very well, Ronald. We’ll go out wherever you like.”

The blond nodded in satisfaction. “That’s what I wanna hear. And you—” He looked at Grell. “—keep your lips off my guy, Senpai. I guess it’s not really your fault since you didn’t know, but if you and Undertaker ever split, don’t go thinking you can rebound on Will.”

Grell smirked in amusement. “My darling keeps me well satisfied, and I return the favor. Nevertheless, I swear to you that I’ll keep my lips—and other parts—off of Chilly Willy in the odd event that my spouse and I part ways.” He winked. “It isn’t as though I have no other romantic options, after all.”

"Good. I’ll go get ready for tonight." He looked at William. "Don’t be late or try to make excuses."

They watched him go and when the door shut behind him, William relaxed a bit. Grell turned to him with a chastising glare before he could enjoy the relief for too long. “This isn’t over, William. I’m angry with you for corrupting my sweet little Ronnie behind my back, and I’ll be keeping an eye on you!”

He stomped out of the brunet’s office, slamming the door behind him and making William wince.

 

* * *

Undertaker was just putting the last finishing touches on a coffin, when his spouse came through the door of the shop and locked it behind him. He knew that grin and he hastily stepped away from the coffin as Grell pranced across the distance separating them and jumped into his arms.

"Watch the paint, lovely," cautioned the mortician with a laugh as he dropped the brush he’d been using to support the redhead’s slight weight. Grell’s lips were covering his face with kisses, as if they had been parted for a week, rather than a couple of days. "Mmm, I could get used to this enthusiasm," approved the ancient.

"I’ve missed you," said Grell un-necessarily. "And not just because you’re so well-endowed and fantastic with your hands and mouth."

"Good to know I’m not just your concubine," snickered the older reaper. He kissed him lingeringly on the lips and carried him through the curtains into the separate living quarters. "At least you’re getting out of the office a bit earlier now than you were before."

Grell sighed, resting his head against his husband’s shoulder as he was brought into the little kitchen. “Well, they’ve sent us more temp transfers from other branches, until more reapers are born and trained. I still don’t see myself getting a day off anytime soon, but at least it helps me get home to you sooner. I just hate it when they send me so far out of town that I’m forced to seek accommodations, when I’d much rather be in your bed…or you in mine, though we hardly use it any longer.”

Undertaker nodded and placed him in a chair by the kitchen table, before going over to the kettle hanging on the nearby cooking hearth to pour some tea. “I’d like to make it easier on you love, but it isn’t practical for my business to live in the Shinigami realm. I can’t ask you to give up your apartment there either, so we’re at a stalemate.”

Grell shrugged and thanked him when he brought him a proper teacup full of Earl Gray. Undertaker still drank out of his beakers, but he’d bought the set so that his darling rose could have something fancier to drink from. “I don’t really mind,” said Grell as he sipped his tea with appreciation. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to ask you to give up what you love to come and be my house husband. I want you happy too, and you make it up for me with those fantastic massages.”

The mortician smiled at him and sat down in the chair adjacent to his. “I know how sore your feet get when you’re on them all day, dear one. The fact that you come home to me when it would be more convenient to go to your apartment after clocking out does my old heart good, so I enjoy spoiling you when I can.”

"Spoken like a true gentleman," sighed Grell, returning his smile. He sobered as he thought of the events of the day. "William and Ronald are sleeping together."

Undertaker dropped some sugar cubes into his beverage, keeping his eyes on the drink. He’d already guessed as much. “Oh? Does that make you jealous?”

Grell shook his head. “It might have a year ago, but not now. I suppose I still think of myself as Ronnie’s guardian on some level. Being his mentor allowed me to vent maternal instincts, after all…though I tend to think of him more like a kid brother than a son. I’m just so annoyed with Will for keeping it from me!”

"Ronnie kept it from you too," reminded Undertaker gently.

"Yes, but he’s still a kid." Grell waved it off. "William should have known better."

"Perhaps he didn’t tell you because he hasn’t told anyone at all," reasoned the mortician. "Workplace romances can be a tricky thing, especially between a manager and his underling. Are you planning to lodge a complaint, love?"

The redhead sighed and shook his head. “No. Their relationship isn’t interfering with anyone’s work, and who in blazes am I to judge them, anyway? I ran away with a criminal, after all.” He winked at Undertaker, who chuckled. “I did enjoy seeing him rattled, though. Ronnie and I both gave him an earful.”

Undertaker frowned. “What did Ronald have to be brassed off about?”

"The kiss," reminded Grell. "The one we shared when I was still trying to work out my feelings for you and decide if I still had feelings for him. Apparently, they were involved when that happened and Will never bothered to tell me."

"Ah, you know I’d actually forgotten about that." Undertaker sighed. "Thank you for reminding me."

"Oh, don’t sulk," coaxed Grell, giving his knee a squeeze under the table. "You said you understood and there hasn’t been any romantic contact between him and I since."

"Right." Undertaker smirked. "There might just be a bit of lingering jealousy in my fool heart. So, Ronnie took it badly, did he?"

Grell sipped his tea and shrugged. “I don’t think he was that surprised when I told him how it happened…though I fabricated it a little to spare William some grief. That boy is going to milk Spears’ guilt for as long as he can.” The redhead grinned. “I taught him well.”

Undertaker snorted. “I could almost feel sorry for the chap…if I still didn’t think he was such a wanker. And how is Mr. Slingby holding up?”

Grell frowned. “Not very well. The man seems…flat…since Alan was taken away. He still does his job well, but it’s as if he’s locked away everything that made him who he was, personality wise. He never smiles anymore. Eric used to have such a handsome smile; I think that was what drew Alan to him romantically, in the beginning. Now he just clocks in, does his work, files reports and leaves. He barely talks to anyone, unless they address him directly first, and then it’s simple, short answers. You can’t hold a conversation with him any longer.”

Undertaker nodded, quite able to relate. “When you lose someone that means that much to you, it’s like a piece of yourself goes with them. You try to fill the void with whatever you can—laughter was my method—but it never fills. In time, you learn to live with it…or you give up and sink so far you can’t climb out again. Sounds like Mr. Slingby could use a bit of counseling.”

Grell’s eyes softened on him. “I don’t think I could have ever comprehended that, if it weren’t for you. Now I find myself thinking: _'What if it were me in his place? What if my Undy had martyred himself to servitude for us?'_ When I think of it that way, my heart really aches for them both. You’ve made me soft.”

Undertaker smiled. “Love can do that; but it can also make you stronger than you ever knew you could be. If it weren’t for love, do you think Mr. Humphries would have been so resolved to his course of action? Do you believe for one moment that in his heart, he was really making his sacrifice to spare his beloved partner? I know _I_ don’t. I would have done the same, in his place.”

Grell thought it over. “One hundred years. That’s not so long in a reaper’s lifetime.”

"It feels like forever when you’re living it without the one you want…the one you _need_ in your life,” explained the mortician softly, and he smiled. “But then sometimes, that person comes back to you and it’s even a greater blessing than it was before. It’s just a matter of surviving long enough to see it happen.”

"You managed," Grell pointed out. "And I was fortunate enough not to recall that we had loved each other before, until that night on the ship. I suppose it was easier for me."

"No doubt about that," conceded the ancient. "Unfortunately, those lads don’t have the luxury of having their memory of loving each other wiped. I doubt the demons would be that merciful to young Alan, and Mr. Slingby can’t ask Dispatch to alter his records and spare him the pain. They’ll both remember every kiss, every smile and every—why darling, are you…crying?"

"No," denied the redhead, even as he wiped frantically at his eyes to keep his mascara from running. "Yes! It’s just so…tragic. You see? Soft!"

Undertaker put his beaker aside and grabbed his spouse’s chair by the legs, scooting him closer so that he could put an arm around him. He fished out a hanky from his robes and he dabbed Grell’s eyes with it. “Shh, don’t fret. Nothing wrong with a little compassion, even for a reaper.”

Grell clung to him, letting him wipe away his tears as he comforted him. “Things like this are romantic and compelling in books and poems,” snuffled the redhead, “but when…when it happens in reality, it’s just…awful!”

Undertaker cuddled him and let him have the hanky. He kissed his forehead and pulled him into his lap, rocking him gently. “I know, my dear…I know. I didn’t mean to upset you so much with my careless words.”

He cupped Grell’s chin and made him look up at him. “It _won’t_ last forever. As you said, it’s one century in countless they could have before them. The demons are under contract not to kill Alan, and Eric simply needs time to cope with things. In one hundred years, they’ll be together again.”

Grell’s weeping quieted, and he stared thoughtfully at his forgotten drink. “What if they don’t have to wait a hundred years?”

"Pardon?"

He looked at the mortician again, an expression of resolve forming on his face. “What if someone found a way to make the contract null and void, or offer something of greater value to them?”

"And what would that be, sweetheart? Exchanging one reaper for another wouldn’t change anything, except for Mr. Humphries and his partner…and he would be awash with guilt if one of his coworkers took his place. Don’t cheapen the sacrifice he made for us."

"I’m not talking about a hostage exchange," said Grell. He blinked. "Oooh, or maybe I am, after all. The Duke that holds Alan prisoner might be willing to trade one of his generals in exchange for Alan’s freedom. That spider demon that came with Sebby seemed to have some authority. We could ask him about him."

"And by kidnapping the chap, you’d risk dishonoring your organization and starting a war with your treachery." Undertaker sighed. "My poor head isn’t used to being the voice of logic, but think about that, before you go making rash plans."

"As if their kind are always honorable with us," snorted Grell. "Please. I know my history, and I know demons have invaded our lands before under false pretenses of treaty. This is the way things work between our races, and you know as well as I that those demons wouldn’t have lent their aid if they didn’t stand to suffer for the results if we lost. Anyway, that damned archangel played us all. There was never any real danger of the library falling, if you recall. Gabriel wouldn’t have allowed it; he said so himself."

Undertaker took in all this information, and his brows lifted. “Hmph…when you put it that way, their _is_ a loophole in that contract. The demon army didn’t actually save the day, did they?”

"Not as far as I’m concerned," said Grell fiercely. "They certainly helped cut down on our losses, but in the end it was the archangel’s final intervention that halted it completely. We had Barachiel down but not out."

"Indeed." Undertaker tapped his fingertips on the surface of the table. "You may have something there, my love."

"And if we can’t use that loophole to free Alan, we can capture whoever the Duke’s closest and most valued advisor is," Grell went on, "whom I believe to be the spider."

"Be careful with that thought," cautioned Undertaker seriously. "I don’t think their kind places the same value on their associates as we do. All that might succeed in doing is pissing them off."

Grell shrugged. “Then we could kidnap the Duke himself.”

Undertaker stared at him, and he started to laugh. “Oh dear me,” he snickered, wiping his eyes. “And they call _me_ unhinged! How would you propose we do that, Grell? The Dukes of Hell are the equivalent in power to seraphs, themselves. It took an entire army to bring Barachiel to his knees.”

Grell deflated with a sigh. “I didn’t think of that.”

"You were setting your sights too high." Undertaker stroked his hair. "Is this an endeavor you mean to go through with, or were you just thinking aloud?"

Grell kissed him. “I mean to set it into motion, if I can get Eric on board.”

"Mmm, and what happens if negotiating the contract fails?"

Grell shrugged. “Then the kidnapping plan comes into play. Not the Duke,” he amended hastily when Undertaker frowned. “His right hand. We have to try, Undy.”

The mortician smirked, unsurprised that he’d already been recruited into this plan. “Grell Sutcliff, doing something noble for a comrade. Huh.”

"Well it’s just wrong," excused the redhead. "No reaper should be enslaved by demons like that. I think it was a foul, underhanded contract to make, knowing that failure to stop the angels would have hurt them as much as it hurt us. They did it for self-preservation and we just let them take one of our own as a toy. We should take him back."

"Then we’d best figure out how to get this plan started." Undertaker absently toyed with the lockets belted around his waist. "Seems we’ll have to pay a visit to the Earl and his butler soon, but first, I think you should work on getting Mr. Slingby on board with it. His partner is far too honorable for his own good, and he might refuse to dissolve his contract unless he sees his dear lover present there as incentive, even if he has every right to."

Grell nodded. “I’ll start on Eric tomorrow,” he promised. “Perhaps you can get the information we need from Bassy. I’d love to do it myself, but his master hasn’t grown fonder of me.”

"Wise choice," agreed Undertaker. He nuzzled Grell’s throat and gave him a squeeze. "Now, about that nightly massage…"

Grell smiled and let him pick him up to carry him to the bedroom. Pampering tonight, business tomorrow. At least nobody could say he never tried to look out for his coworkers.

 

* * *

-The End; the story will continue in a separate installment later. Thank you for reading! 


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